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#the gonzo and rizzo dynamic this implies is rizzo being like âgonzo i think we should get out of hereâ at every turn#while gonzo is like ârizzo donât be ridiculousâ#gonzo: haha wow this castle is so cool and count dracula is such a nice guy!!#rizzo (trembling like a nervous Chihuahua) oh god oh god oh god#gonzo: check it out this guyâs got no reflection! crazy!!#rizzo: gonzo. we are gonna DIE here.#dracula *crawling down the castle like a lizard*#rizzo: GONZO ARE YOU SEEING THIS- wait#gonzo: *crawling down the wall like a lizard too* wahoo!!! (penny-anna)
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đŹ 5  đ 31  â¤ď¸ 84 ¡ Post by @wolf-and-raven-dreaming ¡ 1 image ¡ Page 188
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this "negative" review of guillermo del toro's upcoming frankenstein movie is everything to me
"The Mexican director has chosen to emphasise the romanticism at the expense of the horror. Elordi plays the creature as a misunderstood, James Dean-like outsider with Oedipal issues rather than as an agent of evil and chaos. Even if his face and torso are latticed with suitably grotesque scars, staples and stitches, he is not only the most sympathetic character in the movie but the best-looking one too. Itâs left to Oscar Isaac to provide the real villainy as the brilliant but egomaniacal scientist, Victor Frankenstein..."
HELLO YES IT'S ME, MARY SHELLEY CALLING, JUST WANTED TO ASK IF YOU'VE EVER SEEN A GUILLERMO DEL TORO MOVIE OR... I DON'T KNOW... READ MY BOOK?
"The film lurches between scenes of lush romantic melodrama and moments of Grand Guignol bloodletting."
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I haven't finished the show. I didn't fact check this. I don't feel like the show respects me so I don't feel obliged to respect the show. If this is inaccurate... I don't care đ
S2 fix-it
---
Motifs.
For several years of his life, Hob had no idea the concept existed. He couldnât read at all for a good hundred-fifty years to begin with, and it took a while even after getting involved in printing before he progressed to actually reading literature on his own.
But what Hob has always known is that life runs in patterns. Resonances. He doesnât believe in fateâtold Destiny that to his face actuallyâbut clearly there are forces in the universe beyond his understanding and one of those is recurrence. Motif. Plays upon a theme. Things always come back around. They always come back.
Fashion trends. Moral panics. Political movements. Places. Memories. Tiny coincidences that may or may not be only deja vu.
Dream.
Which is why, though Hob owns a pubâwhich he currently wants to burn to the groundâhe finds himself at the White Horse. Not his White Horse. But thereâs a trillion of them in London. Canât turn a fucking corner without being reminded.
His intentions for the evening had actually been:
Get smashingly drunk at a gay bar.
Find a guy who looked kind of like Dream but not and wrong.
Fuck in an alley.
Hate himself.
Throw up in a public bin on the street.
Die of alcohol poisoning.Â
Come back to life.Â
Hate himself.
Go back to the New Inn and contemplate burning it to the ground with him in it (heâd live).
Alas, instead heâs at the (wrong) White Horse Tavern, on his third bottle of wine (still working on the alcohol poisoning), playing lute music on his phone because it reminds him of The Past and the presentâs kind of shit at the moment. Finding the past in the present always feels a little weird and wrong, except it always comes back, everything always comes back around, and at this point Hob would take a little bit âweird and wrongâ, actually he would take a lot weird and wrong, is there someone he can kill to make it happen? It might make him feel a little better to just fucking kill anybody whose hands touched this. Heâs just so goddamn angry heâs going to explode.Â
One thing that helps with anger that doesnât involve killing someone is finding a like mind, and Hob could probably go talk to some of the people in Dreamâs life who feel similarly, except if he does heâs likely to run into that kid thatâs sort of Dream but mostly not, not in the ways that matter to Hob, and even though he knows itâs not his fault, Hob feels kind of homicidal when he looks at that kid so. Probably shouldnât.Â
God, would it be too unhinged to throw a couple shots of tequila in this wine? Would ruin it, but what does that matter.Â
He orders three shots of tequila at the bar and is in the middle of pouring them into the bottle when thereâs a flutter of feathers and Matthew lands on the table in front of him. âDude, what the fuck are you doing?â
âCanât you guess?â
âTrying to die of alcohol poisoning?âÂ
Hob points at him. âBingo. You want some?â
âNo.âÂ
âYour loss.â Hob pours a glass and tries it. Dear god, thatâs awful.Â
âIâll take some fries if you have âem, though,â Matthew says.Â
Hob orders some chips on his phone. Why does this pub have a fucking app? Is nothing sacred?Â
âI didnât know you were allowed to leave the Dreaming,â he says when heâs done.Â
âYeah, whatever.âÂ
No one says whatever with as much clinical disdain as an American. Why does Hob know an American raven? Do they even have ravens in America? You know what, it doesnât even matter. Nothing does.Â
âIâm not taking orders from a two-year-old,â Matthew continues.Â
âQuite frankly, that is the least of my problems with the guy,â Hob says. âKnown some wise infants in my time. Someone who thinks he can take the place of my friendâ?â
Itâs not his fault
Itâs not his fault
Itâs not
his
fault
He tsks in disapproval. âWell. Sâa different matter.â
âHob, how many people have you killed?â Matthew asks.
âIn what time period?â
âJesus Christ. I dunno, forever?âÂ
âI donât know. Plenty. Less in the past half-century. Killing people used to be more normal. Now you can only do it at war. Or by starting a chemical company and poisoning the water supply with Teflon. Itâs too stupid now to bother with.â
âOkay, so you are actually insane,â Matthew says.Â
Hob shrugs, drinking more of his unholy wine concoction. âYou never saw your boss kill someone?âÂ
âActually, he usually tried not to.âÂ
âHuh.âÂ
âScared the bejeezus out of people, but killed them? Not really.âÂ
âToo bad,â Hob says.Â
Matthew snorts.Â
âToo fucking bad.â Shit, heâs out of wine. âWait, why did you ask me that? Did you want me to kill someone?âÂ
A server comes by with their chips just then. Hob doesnât know why he doesnât get kicked out for having an enormous bird on the table. Maybe they think Matthewâs fake. Maybe heâs invisible. Maybe Hobâs getting a pass for having spent at least ÂŁ300 on alcohol in two hours.Â
Matthew starts scarfing down the chips. âNot really,â he says, between huge mouthfuls. âI was wondering if you were gonna do it on your own.â
âIf I find someone whose deathâll make a difference. Otherwise, I donât know. I donât know what Iâm going to do. I really donât.â
âTell me about it.â
For the time being, Hob opens the stupid pub app and orders another bottle of wine.
Shockingly, they deliver it instead of cutting him off.
He pours another glass and drinks half of it in one go. Heâs starting to feel sick, headache-y, but doesnât stop drinking. âFuckinâ hate funerals.â
âKinda glad I missed my own,â Matthew says.
âIâve been to a few of mine. Sâfuckin weird.â What Hob wouldnât have given for Dream to have walked into his own, though.
Just to have something in his restless hands, he starts folding his napkin in half, then half again, smoothing the creases in brutal, sharp lines. ââLetâs talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,ââ he quotes. ââChoose executors and talk of wills, or not, for what can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the ground?ââ
âNow I get why you guys got along. Youâre both fucking cryptic.â
âItâs not cryptic, itâs Shakespeare, God poorly rest his soul.â He keeps working on folding his napkin into tinier squares. Itâs only possible to do it so many times. One of the rules of the universe. ââThrow away respect,ââ fold, ââtradition,ââ another fold, ââform and ceremonious duty,ââ he canât fold it any more, ââfor you have mistook me all this while. I live on bread like you, feel want, taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus, how can you say to me, I am a king?ââ
âI donât know how you can recite all that while totally hammered,â Matthew says.
âHad a long time to learn it. Reminds me of someone I know.â He drains the rest of his glass and starts drinking straight out of the bottle. Manners are for those who have a reason to give a damn.
Matthew steps sideways on the table as he chokes down another chip. âI never got into that stuff when I was alive. You probably saw it in person or something.â
âItâs not that difficult to have seen a Shakespeare play in person,â Hob says.
âYou know what I mean, dickhead.â
âI dunno. Probably did. I donât remember.â
âYou donât remember.â
âI had other priorities at the time.â Probably came out during the after portion of that time period. Yikes.
He unfolds his paper square and starts refolding it in the opposite direction.
âYou know, I was alive then,â he says.
âObviously?â
âIn the time when the play was set.â He sighs. âWeird to look at a story like that, one that echoes back to your own experiences. Whenever they try to do a ârealisticâ film adaptation they always get some of the details wrong⌠the clothes and the fucking, trees and shitâ gets under my skin.â Asynchronous resonances. Weird rippling echoes.
Kinda feels like that being in this White Horse.
âStage is better for it,â he says. âAbstracted. Doesnât matter about the details.â He drinks more of his wine.
Things always circle back. Back and back and back again. Same but different.
ââThe great stories always return to their original forms,ââ he says. Come back to me, he thinks.
âIs that Shakespeare too?â Matthew asks warily.
âNo.â Hob grimaces. âDream.â
ââŚOh. Fuck.â
Hob slumps down in his chair, head tipped back, spine bent uncomfortably. Not uncomfortably enough to distract from how much it all hurts.
âDid you put more tequila in that wine?â Matthew asks.
âNot this time, you want some?â
âYeah.â
Hob pours some out in one of the empty shot glasses and passes it to him. Then gets distracted for a few moments studying the mechanics of a bird drinking out of a shot glass. Always another new thing.
âKind of appropriate, this place,â he says at last.
âUh, how so?â
âThe White Horse.â He taps his fingers along the stem of his wine glass. His phone is still playing Spotifyâs Bardcore Lute Mix or whatever the fuck. ââAnd I looked, and beheld a white horse, and her name that sat on him was Death, and all Hell followed her,ââ he says.
âWhat is that now, fucking⌠Armageddon?â
âCome on, Matthew, itâs Revelations!â
âIâm not Catholic!â
âA pale horse, Hob,â says a new, but familiar voice. âNot white.â
âDidnât know I could summon you with that,â Hob says as Death sits down at the table across from him. He doesnât offer her a drink. Heâs not feeling particularly charitable towards her right now.
âYou canât, I chose to come.â Death plucks a spare wine glass off another table and pours herself some. Takes, always takes, Death.
ââWhite horseâ feels more correct to me,â Hob says, gesturing at their surroundings. âLife and death fall in the shadows of this place. Well, not this place, literally, but.â
âIts echo still captures you,â Death says, sipping her wine. âCycles like the turning of a season.â
Her expression is kind. Hob fucking hates her.
âIf youâre here to ask me a question, donât bother,â he says. âI intend to drink so much of this that I die, and then come back and do it again.â
âIâm not here to ask you anything,â Death says. She studies them both shrewdly, cryptically. Matthew hops away from her and up onto Hobâs shoulder, nervous. âHave I told you about the Sunless Lands?â
âYou told me you couldnât tell me about the Sunless Lands,â Hob says.
âAnd I canât, except that circumstances require that I do.â She studies the surface of her wine. She is so very still, even Dream would struggle to compete. âThere are things outside of myself that govern my speech, so perhaps in a language that my brother would favor: âEveryone is right, as it turns out. You go to the place you always thought you would go, the place you kept lit in an alcove in your head.ââ
âBilly Collins,â Hob says, as Matthew whispers in his ear, âHow the fââ
âSo, you see,â Death says, folding her hands together.
âWhat I see,â Hob says, growing increasingly incensed, âis someone dead who shouldnât be, and what Iâm hearing is a lot of absolute bullshit about how itâs meant to be that way. Oh, death gives life meaning, life already has meaning! Dreamâs life has meaning. I've killed people-- you think me putting a sword through a soldier's chest is what gave his life meaning? You wanna know what death is?â Why the fuckâs he ranting about death to Death. âYou want another quote? A fucking poem? What is death? âDeath is absolute and without memorial.â Justââ
âWallace Stevens.â
Hob knocks over his glass.
Motherfucking Morpheus-of-the-not-Endless sits down beside him and steals Deathâs half-empty wine glass. âHe also wrote,â he says, ââDeath is the mother of beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.ââ
âArsehole!â Hob yells, throwing his arms around him, dislodging Matthew, who jumps down to the table crying, âBoss!â
Morpheus startles at the contact. Heâs actually physically there. Heâs got a heartbeat and everything. Far too many glasses of wine catch up to Hob all at once and he starts crying against Morpheusâs shoulder.
âHobââ Morpheus tries, awkwardly patting his back.
âAre you really here?â Hob asks. âTruly?â
âTruly,â Morpheus says.
âHow?â
âI donât make any decisions, once someoneâs crossed over,â Death says, eye twinkling. âIâm simply⌠obliged to take people where they are meant to go. Where they believe, and hope they will.âÂ
So then⌠Hob? But thenâŚ
Heâs not sure that makes sense, ârules of the universeâ-wise. How can he be someoneâs afterlife? He still lives in this life, for one thing.
But he doesnât say so. He doesnât say a damn word.
Death steps around the table, touching a hand to his shoulder as she goes. A chill runs through him. âTake care, Hob,â she says, then sheâs gone.
âYou must go, too, Matthew,â Morpheus says.
âButââ
Morpheus touches a light fingertip to the top of Matthewâs head, strokes his feathers. âGo back,â he says gently.
Matthew sighs. âAlright.â He pushes his head into Morpheusâs hand, then takes off and disappears.
When heâs gone, Hob pulls Morpheus tighter to him, pressing Morpheusâs head into his shoulder. âHob,â Morpheus protests, but Hob keeps holding him, and eventually Morpheus sinks into his embrace, wrapping his arms around Hob in turn. âI am sorry,â he says quietly.
âDonât. Oh my God.â
âI did not realize until⌠I did not know this would happen.â
âJust had it stashed away in the back of your head, eh?â
âYes. I suppose I must have.â
God. Hob pulls back from him at last to look him in the eyes. âWelcome, then, toâŚâ afterlife feels wrong, how can it be âafterâ if itâs still a life? âyour... second life?â
âYes,â Morpheus agrees.Â
Hob scrubs at his eyes, though the tears keep coming. âSo much for death being absolute, sorry Wallace.â
âI believe it still is, there is no way for me to turn back, to become⌠Dream again. However, there appears to be a way forward that I did not anticipate. I amâŚâ his cheeks go a little pink; thatâs never happened before. Itâs adorable. âGlad to be here.â
Hob must be really drunk because he takes Morpheusâs face between his hands and strokes his thumbs over that blush, which only makes it deepen. âCan never really go back anyway, can you? Only catch echoes and memories.â
âYes,â Morpheus agrees.
âSpeaking of whichââhe points to Hobâs phoneââthis music is⌠strange and insufferable.â
Hob laughs. âHonestly, yeah, it kind of is.â âBardcore.â What the hell. âIâll find you something youâll like better.â
âYou often do,â Morpheus says.
Madly, impulsively, Hob moves forward to kiss him. Morpheusâs lips are soft and warm, human, though Hob doubts he truly is, heâs something else, a shadow given back the shape that cast it, though not quite, exactly, the same.
Morpheus tilts his head back into the kiss. Is this just what you do in the âafterâlife? Finally let yourself have what you want? Hob could get behind it.
âI love you,â he says when he pulls back. âAlways have.â
Morpheusâs cheeks go pink again.
âIâm glad you didnât go,â Hob adds, pulling him back into another hug, pressing Morpheusâs scrawny chest to his.
âI suppose I did, but not as far as I expected,â Morpheus says.
âGood.â
Morpheus leans against him, tipping his head down on Hobâs shoulder. Hobâs heart sings. Forget alcohol poisoning, he might die from the emotional whiplash of it all. Doesnât matter. Heâll come back.
"You get it now?" he says. "'Why should I give my bounty to the dead?'"
"'Shall I not find in comforts of the sun,'" Morpheus says, picking up the thread of the poem, "'things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?'"
"Exactly."
"Hmm," says Morpheus. "I suppose so. Yes."
Hob wraps his arm around his shoulders. âGlad I called it the âNew Inn,â and not, âWhite Horse 2â or something,â he says.
ââWhite Horse 2,ââ Morpheus echoes. âThat would be rather unoriginal. Not that âThe New Innâ is brimming with originality.â
âExcuse you.â
Morpheus chuckles against his shoulder.
âNevertheless,â Hob says. âI think we picked well, with this place. Or. The original place. Whichever.â
âIn what way?â
ââDeath rides a white horse.ââ
âI believe the verse is, a pale horse,â Morpheus corrects.
âYeah,â Hob says, smiling to himself as he squeezes Morpheus tighter. âWhatever.â
---
Citations:
"Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs..." - Richard II
death rides a pale horse - Revelation 6:8
"you go to the place you always thought you would go..." - Billy Collins, "The Afterlife"
"Death is absolute and without memorial" - Wallace Stevens, "The Death of a Soldier"
"Death is the mother of beauty..." and "Why should I give my bounty to the dead?" - Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning"