#fred gull

[stardustdiver]

Drink Fred Gull™️

It gives you spleens!

[kirstythejetblackgoldfish]

Fred had a very busy day

[hurricane-eva]

FUGUE

In my top ten and top five episodes for sure.

"One day I'll send you out for a routine inquiry and it'll turn out to be just that" is my favourite Fred line from this one.

Spoilers below!

I'm also really leaning towards the theory posited on the Reddit that it was Rosalind whom Gull meant when he said "I know who you couldn't save". It makes so much more sense in the context of opera and what Gull would be able to find out.

I also remembered that, the first time I watched this one, I was suspicious of the pianist.

I'm about to fall asleep like a post-Bodleian Morse so I'm going to come back later if I think of more.

OH WAIT, yes, I wanted to say that Morse's face when he looks at his bloody hand and his delayed reaction is PRICELESS. "Why is this bloody hand staring at me? Wait. It's my bloody hand. Blood. AHHHHH BLOOD"

[ulkaralakbarova]

A blind Vietnam vet, trained as a swordfighter, comes to America and helps to rescue the son of a fellow soldier. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Nick Parker: Rutger Hauer Frank Devereaux: Terry O’Quinn Billy Devereaux: Brandon Call Cobb: Charles Cooper MacCready: Noble Willingham Annie Winchester: Lisa Blount Lynn Devereaux: Meg Foster The Assassin: Sho Kosugi Slag: Randall “Tex” Cobb Lyle Pike: Nick Cassavetes Tector Pike: Rick Overton Latin Girl: Julia González Gang Leader: Paul James Vasquez Crooked Miami Cop #1: Woody Watson Crooked Miami Cop #2: Alex Morris Bus Station Cop: Mark Fickert Popcorn: Weasel Forshaw Six Pack: Roy Morgan Snow: Tim Mateer Female Biker: C.K. McFarland Cornfield Killer #1: T.J. McFarland Cornfiled Killer #2: Blue Deckert Cornfield Killer #3: Glenn Lampert Cornfield Killer #4: Red Mitchell Rockwell Mom: Bonnie Suggs Rockwell Dad: Harold Suggs Freeway Lady #1: Barbara Gulling-Goff Freeway Lady #3: Holly Cross Vagley Freeway Lady #2: Dorothy Young Colleen: Sharon Shackelford Casino Bodyguard #1: Jay Pennison Casino Bodyguard #2: Masanori Toguchi Crooked Croupier: R. Nelson Brown Croupier #2: Lincoln Casey Jr. Croupier #3: Gene Skillen Big Mama: Debora Williams Casino Cowboy: Kyle Thatcher Casino Patron: Patricia Mathews Waiter in Elevator: Mitch Hrushowy Penthouse Guard #1: Ernest Mack Penthouse Guard #2: Linwood Walker Drug Dealer: Robert Prentiss Ski Lodge Killer #1: Jeffrey J. Dashnaw Ski Lodge Killer #2: Glenn R. Wilder Ski Lodge Killer #3: David R. Ellis Ski Lodge Killer #4: Michael Adams Ski Lodge Killer #5: Dave Bartholomew Ski Lodge Killer #6: Fred Lerner Ski Lodge Killer #7: Mike Shanks Ski Lodge Killer #8: Ray Colbert Film Crew: Director of Photography: Don Burgess Executive Producer: Robert W. Cort Producer: Daniel Grodnik Director: Phillip Noyce Producer: Tim Matheson Executive Producer: David Madden Associate Producer: Charles Robert Carner Production Design: Peter Murton Editor: David A. Simmons Original Music Composer: J. Peter Robinson Location Manager: Carole Fontana Unit Production Manager: Dennis Stuart Murphy Location Scout: Mike Harrowing Set Designer: Lauren E. Polizzi Title Designer: Michael Lodge Costume Design: Katherine Dover Production Coordinator: Jeffrey J. Kiehlbauch Casting Assistant: Louise Marrufo Production Coordinator: Gina Scheerer Casting: Junie Lowry-Johnson Casting Associate: William A. Johnson Art Direction: John Myhre Casting Assistant: Elisa Goodman Location Manager: Susan Elkins Script Supervisor: Helen Caldwell Set Decoration: Tom Talbert Second Unit Director: Dick Ziker Key Makeup Artist: Karoly Balazs Special Effects Makeup Artist: J.C. Matalon Assistant Hairstylist: Jan Sebastian Key Makeup Artist: Jeanne Van Phue Hairstylist: Cinzia Zanetti Production Manager: Leonard Bram Executive In Charge Of Production: Ted Zachary Additional Second Assistant Director: Sandy Collister Second Assistant Director: K.C. Colwell First Assistant Director: Tom Davies Second Assistant Director: Douglas Dean III Second Assistant Director: Thomas A. Irvine First Assistant Director: Donald P.H. Eaton Second Unit Director: Max Kleven Set Dresser: Joel Bestrop Art Direction: Michael Marcus Set Decoration: Nicholas T. Preovolos Sound Editor: Gregg Baxter Production Sound Mixer: Jacob Goldstein Assistant Sound Editor: David Hagberg Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Grover B. Helsley Sound Editor: Michael Hilkene Sound Mixer: Walter Hoylman Sound Editor: David M. Ice Sound Editor: Doug Jackson Special Sound Effects: Eric Lindemann Sound Re-Recording Mixer: William L. McCaughey Boom Operator: Prometheus Patient ADR Editor: Tally Paulos Foley Mixer: Troy Porter Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Richard D. Rogers Foley Artist: Joan Rowe Sound Editor: Christopher Sheldon Assistant Sound Editor: Thomas W. Small Foley Artist: Jerry Trent Special Effects Coordinator: Martin Bresin Special Effects Assistant: Steven C. Foster Special Effects Assistant: Marvin Gardner Special Effects Coordinator: Allen Hall Special Effects Supervisor: Mike Manzel Special Effects Assistant: Joe Montenegr...

[writer59january13]

April fools' occurs first day of fourth month

Ordinarily all manner

of tomfoolery doth abound,

celebrated for countless centuries

by different cultures, though exact origins remain shrouded in mystery, nevertheless quasi holiday of sorts begat courtesy primitive precursor to Central Intelligence Agency nsync with Federal

Bureau of Investigations equivalent to Fred Flintstones

as spymasters forebears,

whose true identity

dubbed secret double agent

linkedin to Bedrock background

check, where court jester donned

as most important person and crowned

accordingly prevaricating

without suffering any retribution,

saying the unpopular king drowned.

The following poem

written/updated since last year

unlike any other when out of this world

outlandish accouterments

people did wear hermetically sealed

of even faintest tear

to avoid contamination

against coronavirus air supply difficult to spare,

when wing and prayer

soul saving amazing grace

analogous to can opener

regarding necessary kitchenware,

which empty canned food tins

helps putting out

little fires everywhere.

Pandemic straps tightly

plied girded beltway

unlike any other All fools day

in annals of recorded ("fake") history

western civilization tapestry doth fray

April first two thousand and twenty three

neigh, no time for horseplay

what with coronavirus (COVID-19)

boarded ship of jilted fools (think Homo sapiens)

barred courtesy omnipotent jackstay

furloughed workers analogous

grumpy minions lay

dwarfed by unfortunate uncontrollable pandemonium and melee global events, née...

germinating, jackknifing,

and wreaking havoc

Mother Earth nonchalantly toying

(indiscriminately) regarding humanity

as bestrewing bajillion biohazards berserkly

bequeathing bedlam child's play

just desserts, she doth understandably repay

man/womankind flicked as flotsam and jetsam

vile treatment diabolically heaped, jubilantly loosed, maniacally pitched upon her terrestrial firma oy vey

she chokes, gags, laughs raspily yea

rebuffs, refuses, and renounces further abuse.

Nevertheless toothless gumption, albeit feeble

fighting spirit, her survival instincts assail

cumulative environmental destruction triggered casus belli expelling deadly toxins, when Gaia doth exhale

since onset of global interregnum (think virulent spreading poisonous Kudzu like wildfire biohazard)

since world wide webbed disease

brought grinding halt

consumerist paradigm in lockdown,

nonetheless within brief interim

noticeable clearer air to inhale

amazingly enough postal system... intact voila... uninterrupted

delivery of (nope – sorry) no mail,

the daily highlight experienced among people emotionally crippled

pasty faced and pale

finds quivering Captain Kangaroo

plus good n plenti proud primates each dancing and quivering

like a captive (dan gulling) quail.

[oeuvrinarydurian]

Story of my life as a professional opera singer. This is why I had to buy my own house. 

I started watching Endeavour and it rekindle my love for opera and classic music

The neighboors aren't very happy about it 🤭

[antiqueanimals]

The First Book of the Seashore. Written by Wyatt Blassingame. Illustrated by Fred Sweney. 1964.

Internet Archive

[mywingsareonwheels]

Sometimes I think I am too easily entertained by keeping track of which actors I like were in what.

And then I remember that "The Thick of It" had the Captain from "Ghosts" in a double-act with Mason Gull from "Endeavour" who were persistently annoying Fred Thursday and I start giggling. ;-)

[thekenobee]

"A Royal Night Out"

Guys, I've just watched the most ridiculous film EVER, And it's so hilarious can't breathe

Starring: Fred Thursday/Douglas Richardson, Peter Jakes and Manson Gull

First of all we need to turn back time- scroll down to create and Endeavour 40s AU!

Hooray! We did travel in time!

Now, let me introduce You to the main trio here:

Captain "I was born anxious" Pryce

Sent to be a guardian of the princesses' during their night out but didn't work ://

Anxious

Can sing Like he REALLY CAN SINg-> ITS LIKE ENDEAVOUR but JAKES likes OPERA, really

Is done but at the end of the day gets job done

Have I mentioned AnXiOus

And he screams, like a lot.

40s Douglas Richardson but(*in a syrupy baritone*) more SMUG

He definitely has the way with words:

ISN'T THIS AS DOUGLAS AS IT CAN GET?

He also wears a hat!

Want to make Roger Allam look kinda villainy? GIVE HIM A HAT!

Because, The Hat is PARAMOUNT, obviously!

He also has a MOUSTACHE which makes him even more SMUG(like it was even POSSIBLE)

And! Just like Douglas he has some GOOD QUOTES:

Yup- he does own one

The film also contains Mason Gull GONE -KIND-OF-GOOD(ISH)

He's not all bad(definitely NOT a serial killer just like in Endeavour*laughing nervously*, so yeah)

To sum up: I was cackling the whole time through I pity my family who was asleep while I was watching this masterpiece

Endeavour Most RIDICULOUS (THAT'S the word for today, isn't it?) AU is one click away!

[garyroachsanderson]

i would like to hear more about nerve’s original squadron! maybe a drabble or headcanons? 👀👀

YES IVE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO REQUEST THIS

NERVE X THEIR PAST SQUADRON - DRABBLE / HEADCANONS

After they joined, they were quickly deployed to America, back to their home country, and placed with a squadron.

A ‘squadron’ is a term for two or more flights (units) bunched together in one sort of team. In Nerve’s case, it was 2.

Their squadron was called The 176th Attack Squadron, but everyone had already agreed that was a stupid name, so they called themselves the Dovehawks. One flight was the Doves, and the others were the Hawks. Since both flights already had 14 people, Nerve sort of just.. existed in between. They were in both flights— mainly Hawk— but they were an authentic Dovehawk.

They flew A-10 Thunderbolt IIs. Nerve was upset about having to leave their Lassie behind after being deployed.

Nerve was considerably livelier and talkative with their original flight than they are now. They don’t think they’ll ever be like that again (unless i were to pull a few goofy strings)

Their flight members were actually very kind. It consisted of the following: (👽 means Nerve lost contact with them, ☠️ means KIA, and ❓ means genuinely MIA)

Fracture (👽) (37 Y/O American male, full name John Frazier) 🦅

Bearhug (👽) (34 Y/O Australian female, full name Lizzy Carlson) 🦅

Turtledove (☠️) (19 Y/O Dutch male, full name Cassidy Longlegs) 🦅

South (👽) (43 Y/O American male, full name Altan Kose) 🦅

Laylow (👽) (26 Y/O Lativan female, full name Agnese Kalnina) 🦅

Terrier (☠️) (30 Y/O Australian male, full name Joseph Klitzman) 🦅

Two Teeth (☠️) (56 Y/O United Kingdom male, full name William Sanders) 🦅

Softspot (👽) (28 Y/O American female, full name Hannah Sanders) 🦅

Boxcutter (👽) (18 Y/O American female, full name Hailey de Guzman) (AKA: Nerve’s best friend) 🦅

Kamikaze (❓) (24 Y/O Australian male, full name Alexander Tenorman) 🦅

Gimoteo (❓) (27 Y/O Australian male, full name Derek Tenorman) 🦅

Tiny (☠️) (42 Y/O American female, full name Vanessa Madden) 🦅

Pork (👽) (50 Y/O Australian male, full name Cosmo Barlowe) 🦅

Crow (☠️) (21 Y/O German female, full name Anna Fischer) 🦅

Nerve (❓) (16 Y/O American, first name Arkady (Аркадий), last name undetermined.) 🦅(🕊️?)

Baywatch (❓) (45 Y/O Polish male, first name undetermined but last name Adamski.) 🕊️

Seagull (👽) (30 Y/O United Kingdom male, full name Saul Gull) 🕊️

Kenny (👽) (25 Y/O American male, full name Kenneth Thompson) 🕊️

Bulldog (☠️) (29 Y/O United Kingdom female, full name Amy Deer) 🕊️

Ray (☠️) (40 Y/O American male, full name Raymond Jackson) 🕊️

FuFu (☠️) (26 Y/O American female, full name Bunny Blackburn) 🕊️

Button (❓) (53 Y/O United Kingdom male, full name Seymour Buttefield) 🕊️

Bomber (👽) (20 Y/O Australian male, full name Frank Kaczynski) 🕊️

Nine (👽) (32 Y/O United Kingdom male, full name Daniel Hudson) 🕊️

Screwloose (☠️) (50 Y/O Australian female, full name Mary Walsh) 🕊️

Saline (☠️) (24 Y/O Irish male, full name Fred O’Sullivan) 🕊️

Tombstone (☠️) (60 Y/O Irish male, full name Anthony Walsh) 🕊️

Wren (❓) (18 Y/O United Kingdom female, full name Raina Simon) 🕊️

Ant (❓) (18 Y/O American male, full name Johnny Hodge) 🕊️

(here’s a secret: i haven’t read up on the air force since i was in the 8th grade, making this story. i’m reading all these details on the planes and shit from a paper i found lying in my closet /srs. my memory fails me, as i have no fucking idea what a ‘general chief sergeant’ is, so while i read up on the air force i’ll just say that fracture is the ‘big leader’, baywatch is second in command, etc etc etc, and bearhug, ray, pork, and south are the ‘sergeants’ of the crew. nerve is fracture’s teacher’s pet. boxcutter is nerves best friend. )

“Nerve! There’s something wrong with my jet.”

Their brown eyes glazed down the form of the soldier just in front of the base entrance, attempting to study her facial expression from the goggles blocking her eyes. The flow of sunlight from the outside drenched the soldier and illuminated her gear, but caught her darkened goggles, sending an impossibly bright glint of light Nerve’s way.

Placing a saluted hand upon their forehead, they dragged themselves from their work, their legs threatening to give out as they did. Hauling themselves across the smoothed concrete, placing their hands on their hips as they came to the side of their comrade. They paused, knees slightly bent, studying the back of the plane to discover the issue, before turning to Boxcutter with an eyebrow raised.

“Wait, something’s wrong with your gear.” She pointed a crude finger towards Nerve’s chest, her eyes sliding down their form. Something.. wrong with it? They had double checked it this morning. What could possibly be off?

As their eyes met the tip of her gloved finger, she quickly snapped it upwards, sending Nerve’s chin aloft, head pointed towards the rafters.

“Fucking idiot.”

Nerve hesitated, before pulling down their mesh face mask and exerting all of the force in their molars upon her still-pointed finger.

[peterlorrefanpage]

Peter Lorre Radio Show List

Peter Lorre had an exceptional body of work over the radio! You won’t want to miss his 1945 rendition of “The Tell-Tale Heart,” which you can also find here. 

This is nowhere near an exhaustive list. I’ve started linking these up where I can find them - archive.org, YouTube, and oldtimeradiodownloads.com. 

Abbott and Costello

Abbott and Costello 44-01-13 A Visit to Peter Lorre’s Sanitarium

Script for A Visit to Peter Lorre’s Sanitarium

Amos and Andy

Amos and Andy 43-11-05 The Locked Trunk’s Secret

Arch Oboler’s Plays

Arch Oboler’s Plays 39-12-16 “Nobody Died.” Peter Lorre possibly??

Arch Oboler’s Plays 45-05-24 - Peter Lorre speaks of a real horror.

Bertolt Brecht (Radioausstrahlung)

"Die Heilige Johanna der Schlachthoefe" (Saint Joan of the Slaughterhouses), Berlin, Nov 4, 1932. Peter plays brokers Sullivan Slift and Graham. Here’s a script (in English).

Big Show (Tallulah Bankhead)

Big Show (Tallulah Bankhead) 52-03-09 - this recording is split:

The Cask of Amontillado 

"Who Did What to Fedalia." 

Big Town

Big Town 49-04-26 The Hunter

Bing Crosby Show (Philco Radio)

Bing Crosby Show / Philco Radio 47-11-12 Peter Lorre And Kay Thompson "The Psychiatrist's Office"

Bob Hope

Bob Hope 47-05-13 Guest Peter Lorre Martha Tilton

Camel Caravan - scripts only

38-10-24 with Eddie Cantor; Mr. Moto promo segment

43-04-30 with Jack Carson and Susan Hayward

Command Performance

Command Performance 45-04-19 Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, Martha Stewart

Chesterfield Supper Club (Perry Como & Jo Stafford) - script only

46-10-21 Peter Lorre

Creeps By Night

Creeps By Night 44-06-20 Those Who Walk in Darkness

The Dinah Shore Show 

Birdseye Open House 46-05-09 The Dinah Shore Show 

Duffys Tavern

Duffys Tavern 43-10-19 Missing Salami Sandwich Case 

Fred Allen

Fred Allen 39-10-04 The Search for Mr. Livingstone

Fred Allen / Texaco 43-01-03 The Missing Shot; One Long Pan vs Mr Moto 

Inner Sanctum

Inner Sanctum 43-08-01 The Horla

Inner Sanctum 41-05-25 Death Is a Joker

Inner Sanctum 43-03-07 Black Sea Gull

Inner Sanctum 44-12-06 The Color Blind Formula

Jack Benny

Jack Benny 46-03-24 I Stand Condemned

Jack Benny 41-03-09 Murder At The Racquet Club

Martin & Lewis

Martin & Lewis Show 49-05-08 - with song, "Drop Dead, Little Darling, Drop Dead".

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse

Note: Lorre is the host, versus playing an actual role. His voice is, as ever, exquisite. Here is more background & a full log.

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-07-25 Fifty Candles

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-12-05 Crime To Fit Punishment

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-12-19 The Man In The Velvet Hat

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-12-26 The Letter

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 45-02-27 Yours Truly Jack The Ripper

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 45-03-06 The Man Who Murdered In Public

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 45-04-24 Cask Of Amontillado

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 45-10-12 A Death Is Caused

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-04-11 Criminal at Large 

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-11-28 Nightmare

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 44-12-12 The Bottle Imp

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 45-01-30 Deadline at Dawn

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 45-05-15 Lady in the Morgue

Molle Mystery Theater / Mystery Playhouse 43-02-03 Case of the Backstage Murder

Mystery Playhouse / The Whistler 44-06-11 The Doctor Prescribes Death

Mr. and Mrs. North

Note: Lorre is the host, versus playing an actual role.

Mr. and Mrs. North 44-04-12 Gangster Douglas Grant (Peter Lorre at end with preview of Mr. District Attorney)

Mr. and Mrs. North 44-08-09 Pam Keeps Out Of Trouble

Mr. and Mrs. North 45-01-17 Frisbie Proves His Point aka Frisby Klisby Times Square Murder

Mystery in the Air

Mystery in the Air 47-08-07 06 The Great Barrastro

Script for The Great Barrastro

Mystery in the Air 47-08-14 07 The Lodger

Script for The Lodger

Mystery in the Air 47-08-21 08 The Horla

Script for The Horla

Mystery in the Air 47-08-28 09 Beyond Good and Evil

Script for Beyond Good and Evil

Mystery in the Air 47-09-04 10 The Mask Of Medusa

Script for The Mask of Medusa

Mystery in the Air 47-09-11 11 The Queen of Spades

Script for The Queen of Spades

Mystery in the Air 47-09-18 12 The Black Cat

Script for The Black Cat

Mystery in the Air 47-09-25 13 Crime and Punishment

Script for Crime and Punishment

Mystery In the Air - missing episodes, but here are the scripts:

47-07-03 The Tell-Tale Heart

47-07-17 The Touch of Your Hand

47-07-24 The Interruption

47-07-31 Nobody Loves Me

New Adventures of Nero Wolfe

New Adventures of Nero Wolfe 44-07-14 Last Laugh Murder

Nightmare

Nightmare 53-11-19 The Purple Cloud

Nightmare 53-11-26 Coincidence

Nightmare 54-02-03 Hollow Footsteps

Nightmare 54-03-31 Chance of a Ghost

Nightmare 54-04-07 The Leech

Nightmare 53-12-24 High Wire

Nightmare 54-04-14 The Hybrid

Philip Morris Playhouse

Philip Morris Playhouse 53-08-19 The Night Has a Thousand Eyes [This is a download link]

The Radio Hall of Fame

The Radio Hall of Fame 45-03-04 The Tell-Tale Heart

Screen Guild Theatre

Screen Guild Theatre 43-09-20 “The Maltese Falcon”

Screen Guild Theatre 45-04-16 “Mask of Dimitrios”

Screen Guild Theatre 48-05-24 “Casbah” - script only!

The Skippy Hollywood Theatre

The Skippy Hollywood Theatre 49-04-01 “Mr. God Johnson.”

Spike Jones

Spike Jones 48-12-10 Peter Lorre and Paul Frees.

Paul Frees is doing his Peter Lorre impression in “My Old Flame” and then Peter Lorre comes on!

Strange As it Seems

Strange As It Seems Ep34 (1934??) “Peter The Great Bans Beard.”

Suspense

Suspense 42-12-15 Till Death Do Us Part

Suspense 43-01-19 The Devils Saint

Suspense 43-04-20 Moment Of Darkness

Suspense 44-07-20 Of Maestro And Men

Suspense 43-12-23 Back For Christmas

Suspense 45-08-30 Nobody Loves Me

Texaco Star Theater

Texaco Star Theater 39-10-04 Tomorrow, and Tomorrow - Peter Lorre appears as Mr. Moto

More info on this

Find the entire ep on this disc

===

Search issues: “Peter Lorre” isn’t always mentioned in online details of the shows he was on, and search doesn’t always work well even when he is! It helps if you know the name/sponsor of the radio show. In a few cases I haven’t verified if Lorre really appeared, such as with that first Arch Oboler or Amos and Andy. Boris Karloff is also sometimes mistaken for Peter Lorre. :/

See also:

Peter Lorre Movie Timeline

Peter Lorre Television Show List

[kirstythejetblackgoldfish]

[seriously-smitten]

Fred: What country has the most birds?

Fred: Portu-geese

Fred: Wait

Tonks: That’s a language

George: Portu-gull

Tonks: Nice recovery

Sirius: Don’t you mean re-dove-ry?

Remus: Turkey. How did we miss Turkey?

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 10 paragraph xvi

Gyuri left us out in the Sixties, not far at all from the Barbours’. “This is the place?” I said, shaking the rain off Hobie’s umbrella. We were out in front of one of the big limestone townhouses off Fifth—black iron doors, massive lion’s-head knockers. “Yes—it’s his father’s place—his other family are trying to get him out legally but good luck with that, hah.” We were buzzed in, took a cage elevator up to the second floor. I could smell incense, weed, spaghetti sauce cooking. A lanky blonde woman—shortcropped hair and a serene small-eyed face like a camel’s—opened the door. She was dressed like a sort of old-fashioned street urchin or newsboy: houndstooth trousers, ankle boots, dirty thermal shirt, suspenders. Perched on the tip of her nose were a pair of wire-rimmed Ben Franklin glasses. Without saying a word she opened the door to us and walked off, leaving us alone in a dim, grimy, ballroom-sized salon which was like a derelict version of some high-society set from a Fred Astaire movie: high ceilings; crumbling plaster; grand piano; darkened chandelier with half the crystals broken or gone; sweeping Hollywood staircase littered with cigarette butts. Sufi chants droned low in the background: Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Someone had drawn on the wall, in charcoal, a series of life-sized nudes ascending the stairs like frames in a film; and there was very little furniture apart from a ratty futon and some chairs and tables that looked scavenged from the street. Empty picture frames on the wall, a ram’s skull. On the television, an animated film flickered and sputtered with epileptic vim, windmilling geometrics intercut with letters and live-action racecar images. Apart from that, and the door where the blonde had disappeared, the only light came from a lamp which threw a sharp white circle on melted candles, computer cables, empty beer bottles and butane cans, oil pastels boxed and loose, many catalogues raisonnés, books in German and English including Nabokov’s Despair and Heidegger’s Being and Time with the cover torn off, sketch books, art books, ashtrays and burnt tinfoil, and a grubby-looking pillow where drowsed a gray tabby cat. Over the door, like a trophy from some Schwarzwald hunting lodge, a rack of antlers cast distorted shadows that spread and branched across the ceiling with a Nordic, wicked, fairy-tale feel. Conversation in the next room. The windows were shrouded with tacked-up bedsheets just thin enough to let in a diffuse violet glow from the street. As I looked around, forms emerged from the dark and transformed with a dream strangeness: for one thing, the makeshift room divider—consisting of a carpet sagging tenement-style from the ceiling on fishing line—was on closer look a tapestry and a good one too, eighteenth century or older, the near twin of an Amiens I’d seen at auction with an estimate of forty thousand pounds. And not all the frames on the wall were empty. Some had paintings in them, and one of them—even in the poor light—looked like a Corot.

I was just about to step over for a look when a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty appeared in the door: worn-looking, rangy, with straight sandy hair combed back from his face, in black punk jeans out at the knee and a grungy British commando sweater with an ill-fitting suit jacket over it. “Hello,” he said to me, quiet British voice with a faint German bite, “you must be Potter,” and then, to Boris: “Glad you turned up. You two should stay and hang out. Candy and Niall are making dinner with Ulrika.” Movement behind the tapestry, at my feet, that made me step back quickly: swaddled shapes on the floor, sleeping bags, a homeless smell. “Thanks, we can’t stay,” said Boris, who had picked up the cat and was scratching it behind the ears. “Have some of that wine though, thanks.” Without a word Horst passed his own glass over to Boris and then called into the next room in German. To me, he said: “You’re a dealer, right?” In the glow of the television his pale pinned gull’s eye shone hard and unblinking. “Right,” I said uneasily; and then: “Uh, thanks.” Another woman—bobhaired and brunette, high black boots, skirt just short enough to show the black cat tattooed on one milky thigh—had appeared with a bottle and two glasses: one for Horst, one for me. “Danke darling,” said Horst. To Boris he said: “You gentlemen want to do up?” “Not right now,” said Boris, who had leaned forward to steal a kiss from the dark-haired woman as she was leaving. “Was wondering though. What do you hear from Sascha?” “Sascha—” Horst sank down on the futon and lit a cigarette. With his ripped jeans and combat boots he was like a scuffed-up version of some below-the-title Hollywood character actor from the 1940s, some minor mitteleuropäischer known for playing tragic violinists and weary, cultivated refugees. “Ireland is where it seems to lead. Good news if you ask me.” “That doesn’t sound right.” “Nor to me, but I’ve talked to people and so far it checks out.” He spoke with all a junkie’s arrhythmic quiet, off-beat, but without the slur. “So—soon we should know more, I hope.” “Friends of Niall’s?” “No. Niall says he never heard of them. But it’s a start.”

The wine was bad: supermarket Syrah. Because I did not want to be anywhere near the bodies on the floor I drifted over to inspect a group of artists’ casts on a beat-up table: a male torso; a draped Venus leaning against a rock; a sandaled foot. In the poor light they looked like the ordinary plaster casts for sale at Pearl Paint—studio pieces for students to sketch from—but when I drew my finger across the top of the foot I felt the suppleness of marble, silky and grainless. “Why would they go to Ireland with it?” Boris was saying restlessly. “What kind of collectors’ market? I thought everyone tries to get pieces out of there, not in.” “Yes, but Sascha thinks he used the picture to clear a debt.” “So the guy has ties there?” “Evidently.” “I find this difficult to believe.” “What, about the ties?” “No, about the debt. This guy—he looks like he was stealing hubcaps off the street six months ago. “ Horst shrugged, faintly: sleepy eyes, seamed forehead. “Who knows. Not sure that’s correct but certainly I’m not willing to trust to luck. Would I let my hand be cut off for it?” he said, lazily tapping an ash on the floor. “No.” Boris frowned into his wine glass. “He was amateur. Believe me. If you saw him yourself you would know.” “Yes but he likes to gamble, Sascha says.” “You don’t think Sascha maybe knows more?” “I think not.” There was a remoteness in his manner, as if he was talking half to himself. “ ‘Wait and see.’ This is what I hear. An unsatisfactory answer. Stinking from the top if you ask me. But as I say, we are not to the bottom of this yet.” “And when does Sascha get back to the city?” The half-light in the room sent me straight back to childhood, Vegas, like the obscure mood of a dream lingering after sleep: haze of cigarette smoke, dirty clothes on the floor, Boris’s face white then blue in the flicker of the screen. “Next week. I’ll give you a ring. You can talk to him yourself then.” “Yes. But I think we should talk to him together.” “Yes. I think so too. We’ll both be smarter, in future… this need not have happened… but in any case,” said Horst, who was scratching his neck slowly, absent-mindedly, “you understand I’m wary of pushing him too hard.” “That is very convenient for Sascha.” “You have suspicions. Tell me.” “I think—” Boris cut his eyes at the doorway. “Yes?” “I think—” Boris lowered his voice—“you are being too easy on him. Yes yes—” putting up his hands—“I know. But—all very convenient for his guy to vanish, not a clue, he knows nothing!” “Well, maybe,” Horst said. He seemed disconnected and partly elsewhere, like an adult in the room with small children. “This is pressing on me—on all of us. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. Though for all we know his guy was a cop.” “No,” said Boris resolutely. “He was not. He was not. I know it.” “Well—to be quite frank with you, I do not think so either, there is more to this than we yet know. Still, I’m hopeful.” He’d taken a wooden box from the drafting table and was poking around in it. “Sure you gentlemen wouldn’t like to get into a little something?” I looked away. I would have liked nothing better. I would also have liked to see the Corot except I didn’t want to walk around the bodies on the floor to do it. Across the room, I’d noticed several other paintings propped on the wainscoting: a still life, a couple of small landscapes. “Go look, if you want.” It was Horst. “The Lépine is fake. But the Claesz and the Berchem are for sale if you’re interested.” Boris laughed and reached for one of Horst’s cigarettes. “He’s not in the market.” “No?” said Horst genially. “I can give him a good price on the pair. The seller needs to get rid of them.”

I stepped in to look: still life, candle and half-empty wineglass. “Claesz-Heda?” “No—Pieter. Although—” Horst put the box aside, then stood beside me and lifted the desk lamp on the cord, washing both paintings in a harsh, formal glare—“this bit—” traced mid-air with the curve of a finger—“the reflection of the flame here? and the edge of the table, the drapery? Could almost be Heda on a bad day.” “Beautiful piece.” “Yes. Beautiful of its type.” Up close he smelled unwashed and raunchy, with a strong, dusty import-shop odor like the inside of a Chinese box. “A bit prosaic to the modern taste. The classicizing manner. Much too staged. Still, the Berchem is very good.” “Lot of fake Berchems out there,” I said neutrally. “Yes—” the light from the upheld lamp on the landscape painting was bluish, eerie—“but this is lovely… Italy, 1655‥… the ochres beautiful, no? The Claesz not so good I think, very early, though the provenance is impeccable on both. Would be nice to keep them together… they have never been apart, these two. Father and son. Came down together in an old Dutch family, ended up in Austria after the war. Pieter Claesz…” Horst held the light higher. “Claesz was so uneven, honestly. Wonderful technique, wonderful surface, but something a bit off with this one, don’t you agree? The composition doesn’t hold together. Incoherent somehow. Also—” indicating with the flat of his thumb the too-bright shine coming off the canvas: overly varnished. “I agree. And here—” tracing midair the ugly arc where an over-eager cleaning had scrubbed the paint down to the scumbling. “Yes.” His answering look was amiable and drowsy. “Quite correct. Acetone. Whoever did that should be shot. And yet a mid-level painting like this, in poor condition—even an anonymous work—is worth more than a masterpiece, that’s the irony of it, worth more to me, anyway. Landscapes particularly. Very very easy to sell. Not too much attention from the authorities… difficult to recognize from a description… and still worth maybe a couple hundred thousand. Now, the Fabritius—” long, relaxed pause—“a different calibre altogether. The most remarkable work that’s ever passed through my hands, and I can say that without question.” “Yes, and that is why we would like so much to get it back,” grumbled Boris from the shadows. “Completely extraordinary,” continued Horst serenely. “A still life like this one—” he indicated the Claesz, with a slow wave (black-rimmed fingernails, scarred venous network on the back of his hand)—“well, so insistently a trompe l’oeil. Great technical skill, but overly refined. Obsessive exactitude. There’s a deathlike quality. A very good reason they are called natures mortes, yes? But the Fabritius…”—loose-kneed back-step—“I know the theory of The Goldfinch, I’m well familiar with it, people call it trompe l’oeil and indeed it can strike the eye that way from afar. But I don’t care what the art historians say. True: there are passages worked like a trompe l’oeil… the wall and the perch, gleam of light on brass, and then… the feathered breast, most creaturely. Fluff and down. Soft, soft. Claesz would carry that finish and exactitude down to the death—a painter like van Hoogstraten would carry it even farther, to the last nail of the coffin. But Fabritius… he’s making a pun on the genre… a masterly riposte to the whole idea of trompe l’oeil… because in other passages of the work—the head? the wing?—not creaturely or literal in the slightest, he takes the image apart very deliberately to show us how he painted it. Daubs and patches, very shaped and hand-worked, the neckline especially, a solid piece of paint, very abstract. Which is what makes him a genius less of his time than our own. There’s a doubleness. You see the mark, you see the paint for the paint, and also the living bird.”

“Yes, well,” growled Boris, in the dark beyond the spotlight, snapping his cigarette lighter shut, “if no paint, would be nothing to see.” “Precisely.” Horst turned, his face cut by shadow. “It’s a joke, the Fabritius. It has a joke at its heart. And that’s what all the very greatest masters do. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Late Titian. They make jokes. They amuse themselves. They build up the illusion, the trick—but, step closer? it falls apart into brushstrokes. Abstract, unearthly. A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether. The thing and yet not the thing. I should say that that one tiny painting puts Fabritius in the rank of the greatest painters who ever lived. And with The Goldfinch? He performs his miracle in such a bijou space. Although I admit, I was surprised—” turning to look at me—“when I held it in my hands the first time? The weight of it?” “Yes—” I couldn’t help feeling gratified, obscurely, that he’d noted this detail, oddly important to me, with its own network of childhood dreams and associations, an emotional chord—“the board is thicker than you’d think. There’s a heft to it.” “Heft. Quite. The very word. And the background—much less yellow than when I saw it as a boy. The painting underwent a cleaning—early nineties I believe. Post-conservation, there’s more light.” “Hard to say. I’ve got nothing to compare it to.” “Well,” said Horst. The smoke from Boris’s cigarette, threading in from the dark where he sat, gave the floodlit circle where we stood the midnight feel of a cabaret stage. “I may be wrong. I was a boy of twelve or so when I saw it for the first time.” “Yes, I was about that age when I first saw it too.” “Well,” said Horst, with resignation, scratching an eyebrow—dime-sized bruises on the backs of his hands—“that was the only time my father ever took me with him on a business trip, that time at The Hague. Ice cold boardrooms. Not a leaf stirring. On our afternoon I wanted to go to Drievliet, the fun park, but he took me to the Mauritshuis instead. And—great museum, many great paintings, but the only painting I remember seeing is your finch. A painting that appeals to a child, yes? Der Distelfink. That is how I knew it first, by its German name.”

“Yah, yah, yah,” said Boris from the darkness, in a bored voice. “This is like the education channel on the television.” “Do you deal any modern art at all?” I said, in the silence that followed. “Well—” Horst fixed me with his drained, wintry eye; deal wasn’t quite the correct verb, he seemed amused at my choice of words—“sometimes. Had a Kurt Schwitters not long ago—Stanton Macdonald-Wright—do you know him? Lovely painter. It depends a lot what comes my way. Quite honestly— do you ever deal in paintings at all?” “Very seldom. The art dealers get there before I do.” “That is unfortunate. Portable is what matters in my business. There are a lot of mid-level pieces I could sell on the clean if I had paper that looked good.” Spit of garlic; pans clashing in the kitchen; faint Moroccan-souk drift of urine and incense. On and on flatlining, the Sufi drone, wafting and spiraling around us in the dark, ceaseless chants to the Divine. “Or this Lépine. Quite a good forgery. There’s this fellow—Canadian, quite amusing, you’d like him—does them to order. Pollocks, Modiglianis— happy to introduce you, if you’d like. Not much money in them for me, although there’s a fortune to be made if one of them turned up in just the right estate.” Then, smoothly, in the silence that followed: “Of older works I see a lot of Italian, but my preferences—they incline to the North as you can see. Now—this Berchem is a very fine example for what it is but of course these Italianate landscapes with the broken columns and the simple milkmaids don’t so much suit the modern taste, do they? I much prefer the van Goyen there. Sadly not for sale.” “Van Goyen? I would have sworn that was a Corot.” “From here, yes, you might.” He was pleased at the comparison. “Very similar painters—Vincent himself remarked it—you know that letter? ‘The Corot of the Dutch’? Same tenderness of mist, that openness in fog, do you know what I mean?” “Where—” I’d been about to ask the typical dealer’s question, where did you get it, before catching myself. “Marvelous painter. Very prolific. And this is a particularly beautiful example,” he said, with all a collector’s pride. “Many amusing details up close—tiny hunter, barking dog. Also—quite typical—signed on the stern of the boat. Quite charming. If you don’t mind—” indicating, with a nod, the bodies behind the tapestry. “Go over. You won’t disturb them.” “No, but—” “No—” holding up a hand—“I understand perfectly. Shall I bring it to you?” “Yes, I’d love to see it.”

“I must say, I’ve grown so fond of it, I’ll hate to see it go. He dealt paintings himself, van Goyen. A lot of the Dutch masters did. Jan Steen. Vermeer. Rembrandt. But Jan van Goyen—” he smiled—“was like our friend Boris here. A hand in everything. Paintings, real estate, tulip futures.” Boris, in the dark, made a disgruntled noise at this and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden a scrawny wild-haired boy of maybe twenty-two, with an old fashioned mercury thermometer sticking out of his mouth, came lurching out of the kitchen, shielding his eyes with his hand against the upheld lamp. He was wearing a weird, womanish, chunky knit cardigan that came almost to his knees like a bathrobe; he looked ill and disoriented, his sleeve was up, he was rubbing the inside of his forearm with two fingers and then the next thing I knew his knees went sideways and he’d hit the floor, the thermometer skittering out with a glassy noise on the parquet, unbroken. “What…?” said Boris, stabbing out his cigarette, standing up, the cat darting from his lap into the shadows. Horst—frowning—set the lamp on the floor, light swinging crazily on walls and ceiling. “Ach,” he said fretfully, brushing the hair from his eyes, dropping to his knees to look the young man over. “Get back,” he said in an annoyed voice to the women who had appeared in the door, along with a cold, dark-haired, attentive-looking bruiser and a couple of glassy prep-school boys, no more than sixteen—and then, when they all still stood staring—flicked out a hand. “In the kitchen with you! Ulrika,” he said to the blonde, “halt sie zurück.” The tapestry was stirring; behind it, blanket-wrapped huddles, sleepy voices: eh? was ist los? “Ruhe, schlaft weiter,” called the blonde, before turning to Horst and beginning to speak urgently in rapid-fire German. Yawns; groans; farther back, a bundle sitting up, groggy American whine: “Huh? Klaus? What’d she say?” “Shut up baby and go back schlafen.” Boris had picked up his coat and was shouldering it on. “Potter,” he said and then again, when I did not answer, staring horrified at the floor, where the boy was breathing in gurgles: “Potter.” Catching my arm. “Come on, let’s go.” “Yes, sorry. We’ll have to talk later. Schiesse,” said Horst regretfully, shaking the boy’s limp shoulder, with the tone of a parent making a not-particularly-convincing show of scolding a child. “Dummer Wichser! Dummkopf! How much did he take, Niall?” he said to the bruiser who had reappeared in the door and was looking on with a critical eye. “Fuck if I know,” said the Irishman, with an ominous sideways pop of his head. “Come on, Potter,” said Boris, catching my arm. Horst had his ear to the boy’s chest and the blonde, who had returned, had dropped to her knees beside him and was checking his airway.

As they consulted urgently in German, more noise and movement behind the Amiens, which billowed out suddenly: faded blossoms, a fête champêtre, prodigal nymphs disporting themselves amidst fountain and vine. I was staring at a satyr peeping at them slyly from behind a tree when, unexpectedly —something against my leg—I started back violently as a hand swiped from underneath and clutched my trouser cuff. From the floor, one of the dirty bundles—swollen red face just visible from under the tapestry—inquired of me in a sleepy gallant voice: “He’s a margrave, my dear, did you know that?” I pulled my trouser leg free and stepped back. The boy on the floor was rolling his head a bit and making sounds like he was drowning. “Potter.” Boris had gathered up my coat and was practically stuffing it in my face. “Come on! Let’s go! Ciao,” he called into the kitchen with a lift of his chin (pretty dark head appearing in the doorway, a fluttering hand: bye, Boris! Bye!) as he pushed me ahead of him and ducked behind me out the door. “Ciao, Horst!” he said, making a call me later gesture, hand to ear. “Tschau Boris! Sorry about this! We’ll talk soon! Up,” said Horst, as the Irishman came up and grabbed the boy’s other arm from underneath; together they hoisted him up, feet limp and toes dragging and—amidst hurried activity in the doorway, the two young teenagers scrambling back in alarm—hauled him into the lighted doorway of the next room, where Boris’s brunette was drawing up a syringe of something from a tiny glass bottle.

[romioneficfest]

Namesake

Title: Namesake

Day 1: Wand. Shell Cottage. Hermione admits she’s wrong

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Rating: T

Summary: On the anniversary of Dobby’s death, Ron and Hermione pay their respects.

Possible triggers/tags: Grief

A shadow stretched across the sandy grave. The silent shadow she’d grown accustomed to over the past year. Lanky as ever, hands in pockets.

Nearly summer. The call of gulls, and the sea breeze and the pale green of the dune grasses shifting…

She felt… as though she wasn’t entitled to the tears that dripped off her chin. As though she hadn’t been a big enough part of Dobby’s short life to sit weeping by his grave.

She heard the squeak of the dry sand, and the double click of Ron’s knees cracking as he knelt by the headstone.

She found herself staring at him, folded like zig-zag, barefoot with the cuffs of his new jeans rolled up…

He pulled a pair of socks from his back pocket. One was a red Gryffindor sock, a new one, with the crest on the ankle, and the tiny lion stalking around and silently roaring. The other was from the WWW range they’d all argued over until George had pointed out that Fred would have found it hysterical. This particular grey sock had tiny caricatures of Harry’s face dotted all over it, complete with scruffy hair, lightning scar, and glasses.

Ron carefully re-matched them before placing them beside the headstone.

Hermione’s grief caught in her throat.

What she’d brought… didn’t feel right.

“I’ve got it all wrong,” she said despairingly, “I thought… I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing him a wand… he didn’t want… it’s not… Elves aren’t interested in wands… they have their own magic, their own ways of being and thinking and doing things and… I’m so stupid, what was I thinking with spew, it’s all wrong, it’s, it’s muddleheaded, I just… I- I think, maybe I’m so used to being right that I’m a bit rubbish at listening…”

He was considering her now, his eyes serious, sunshine lighting his ginger eyelashes into nothing but sombre blue iris.

The corner of his mouth quirked up.

That hadn’t happened for a very long time.

She blinked.

“Two things,” he said, and his voice felt like heaven, “First, please tell me that you calling it ‘spew’ means this is the end of spew. Second…” He paused. A light blush was creeping up his neck. “If you’re practicing listening… I’ve been trying to tell you for months now that I- that I’m in love with you. Wait! I’m not done. Look, whether you’re interested or whether you’re not, can we talk about it? Because it kind of makes me act like an arse and I feel like it’ll be easier not to be awful if you know and we can like, manage it,”

Hermione discovered she had completely forgotten the entirety of the English language, at precisely the moment when she needed it most.

“Though, if you are interested, and it works out, we may have to name our firstborn after him.”

“Who?”

“Dobby. He did save our lives.”

She gave a watery gust of laughter.

“Definitely. He’d love that.”

[blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms]

Drink - Bill Weasley

Pairing: Bill Weasley x Reader

Characters: Bill Weasley

Warnings: N/A

Request: N/A

Word Count: 608

Author: Hannah

You’d spent most of your life trying to help everyone else out, make sure that they were happy before you were and that they wouldn’t have to worry about much.

It hadn’t taken long for you to realise that it wasn’t the best way of going about things and that you did deserve to put yourself first every once in a while.

What you hadn’t banked on, however, when you decided to put yourself first was sleeping with your friend’s older brother, well one of them anyway.

You’d been friends with the Weasley twins all throughout school and had met their siblings many times, and since leaving school with them you’d gotten to know the whole family even more.

When you’d seen Bill in a local tavern the night prior, you’d gone up to him intending just to say hello, but one thing led to another and soon enough you were apparating back to Shell Cottage.

You thought you were going to feel mortified in the morning but when you woke up, heard the sea and the gulls outside and turned to the man that was still fast asleep next to you – you didn’t feel anything other than content.

Whilst trying not to wake Bill, you slowly climbed out of bed and slipped on his button-up from the night before.

You only went to the bathroom but when you made you way back into Bill’s bedroom, he was no longer as you left him.

Deciding to find him, you slowly went downstairs and found Bill in the kitchen with only a pair of pyjama bottoms on his person.

He looked up and shot you a smile. “Well good morning love,” he greeted you.

You smiled at him and then couldn’t help but be a little giddy at the familiarity between you two, how easily Bill could just pull you into his arms.

Bill’s arms wrapped around you, resting one palm on your bare back underneath his shirt. “I thought I might make you a drink before you ultimately decide to leave and get on with your day.”

Tilting your head in confusion, Bill sighed.

“Well…I just figured that last night probably wasn’t what you’d expected,” he explained slightly cautiously. “And, you know, you’re essentially the twins’ best friend.”

You shrugged. “What do Fred and George have to do with last night?”

“I don’t think they’d take too kindly to me removing the innocence of their precious Y/N.”

You laughed, reaching up to wind your arms around Bill’s neck. “I lose my so-called innocence a long time ago Bill,” you told him gently. “And as for last night, I thought things went quite well, yes?”

Surprisingly your words caused Bill’s cheeks to flush but still he leant down and gently kissed you. “Exceptionally well.”

“Then why are we going to tread on eggshells as if it didn’t happen?” you asked. “I understand if you wouldn’t want to be with a girl eight years your junior, and you have been married before, but-“

Bill interrupted your rambling by kissing you rather soundly. “Why would I care about the age?” he questioned softly. “And as for my ex-wife, it was an amicable split and she isn’t even in the country anymore.”

It seemed like he had put your worries to rest, just as you had with his.

“Now, I think we should shower and then go for a walk along the beach,” he suggested, seemingly forgetting about the drink he had offered you.

You nodded in agreement, getting out of his grip and wandering over to the stairs. “I might need some help with the shower…”

“It would be my pleasure.”