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Mike doesn’t answer his phone in the two calls Richie shoots his way before he gets to the Beef. Richie parks in Mike’s favorite parking spot, because fuck him, and storms his way into the office in the back. It’s just as they left it last night, a couple of bottles of Miller Lites each still on the desk, cigarette butts stubbed out in each of the bottle caps, at least three mountains of paperwork, the Mother Mary, and a desk calendar still sitting on April. Richie pulls open the top right drawer and doesn’t find the bottle of pills Mike keeps stashed in there. The only thing on his desk Richie doesn’t remember seeing when he finally stumbled out to his car last night, leaving Mike to finish locking up, is a can of tomatoes.
[Or Richie Jerimovich's Day Off.]
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It’s 1962, which has never been a real year to him, just a number you’d see written down on paper, history long since tucked away in a book, and while he realistically knows everything that happened before he was alive to take notice is actually still real and not some fever dream the world’s population has agreed to play along with, it still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not.
Luther tries to remember quickly what day of the week it is - it’s not Thursday, which is the day he reserves for sheer existential dread, the kind of deep seated fear that has him thinking he died when the Moon struck Earth and he’s now stuck in some kind of purgatory or some kind of hell. On Thursdays, he thinks this place was designed to torture him and it just isn’t working because he’s built up a hell of an immunity, 30-plus years at the hands of his father’s daily doses, as well as several of his own.
It’s Friday. Luther picks at the bread stuck in his teeth with the toothpick that speared his sandwich, and thinks to himself, TGIF.
[Or Luther becomes Jack Ruby’s Number One.]
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a portrait of the artist as a con man by p3trichor, putanauhere
Fandoms: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch (2019)
11 Jun 2020
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“And how did you come across a particularly sloppy Renoir reproduction?” Theo can’t help but ask as Boris gestures at the bartender for another two shots and smirks when Theo says reproduction. Even if Boris struck Theo as the art type, a fake Renoir is not the sphere of work that Theo could imagine Boris’ collection to be.
Boris ticks a thumbnail against the side of his glass pensively. “Friend of friend gave it to me. A gift of sorts. One of my associates suggested I get it looked at by professional.”
“And you found me,” Theo finishes for him.
Boris holds his hands out, palms up, and replies, “Small world, no?”
[Or art restoration expert Theo Decker finds himself slowly pulled into the high risk/high reward world of art forgery at the hands of his old classmate, Boris Pavlikovsky.]
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sunlight sunlight sunlight by putanauhere for p3trichor
Fandoms: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch (2019)
27 Oct 2019
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Stood on the sand-dusted pavement, Boris had popped open an umbrella and said, “I don’t like the sun,” but it wasn’t then.
It was in the car, driving through Hell’s Kitchen - Theo had laughed and said, “I’m a ‘vampire’ too,” his fingers crooking quotes around the word in the air.
“What is this?” Boris had laughed back, mimicking the gesture over and over until everything he said over the next twenty minutes had read like sarcasm, like a figure of speech.
It was in the hall outside the ballroom, Boris standing in front of an ornate mirror he wasn’t reflected in, and at the time Theo’s mind had worked too fast around the details of getting his painting back to think much of it, other than a passing thought that it couldn’t have been a mirror then, but rather an empty frame to enclose around Boris until he became a painting himself.
[Or Theo loses his life in Amsterdam, so Boris gives him another.]
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He’s not spent six years hanging his whole hat on sailing halfway to Dunkirk, he’s not plagued by the sound of Spitfires in his dreams. He thinks he’s rather moved on from all of it, as much as he can, and the guilt that hits him, when it hits him, is momentary, fleeting. There and gone like those moments when you’re alone, in the dark, and it occurs to you afresh that one day you’re not going to wake up, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.
Usually he can bottle it up, store it away inside him somewhere it won’t come rolling back out if he can help it. He can’t today, only half his mind on Aristotle.
The other half of his mind thinks the boy’s eyes were green.
[Or they learn when survival just isn't enough.]