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His Final Curtain
He was the world’s greatest thief, for he had just robbed the King of Death blind.
Hercule Nottingham hurried into the studio, slammed the door, bolted every bolt, and leaned against it. Breathing heavily, he lifted the satchel and noted with satisfaction how much heavier it was now.
“Daphne said it couldn’t be done,” he breathed. “Orpheus, Persephone: none made it out successfully, she said. Well…”
His grin stretched. Eventually, one rummaging hand came out with his prize.
“…there’s a first time for everything.”
Under the spotlights, the crown glinted. And Hercule laughed, because he was still full of life.
He dumped the thing in the props box. There were countless fake crowns in there; what better hiding place for Daphne’s priceless prize than among fakes?
Oddly, the real crown somehow seemed less convincingly shiny and bejeweled than the fake ones. Perhaps it was because the fakes were made with paper and glue. There was a tendency towards overcompensation, when one had the merest materials.
Hercule nodded to the other stagehands and smiled and charmed and waved and generally was Hercule Nottingham, the Errol Flynn of modern theatre—so Daphne liked to think of him—the Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart too whenever it suited. Hercule Nottingham, a man of many talents. Hercule Nottingham, who had just robbed the King of Death blind.
An unfamiliar face passed him by. Frowning with puzzlement, he stopped and rounded on the figure. Tall, darkly clad, holding something…
Yet when he tried to focus… No, he must’ve been hallucinating from all the excitement.
“Excuse me,” he said, sounding more chipper than he felt.
Grimly, the figure turned.
Hercule sagged with relief: a perfectly ordinary man. “Are you new? I always make a point of welcoming newcomers.”
yes.
Hercule stuck a finger in his ear. The words… He had the odd sensation they’d always been there, yet his ears were adamant nothing had come through.
Nonetheless, he held out a hand. “Hercule Nottingham. If there’s anything you require, don’t hesitate to ask.”
The grip was… for a moment, icy. Far too thin and hard.
kind of you. i fear i won’t be here long.
“Oh?”
i’m merely a replacement.
“You’re not by any chance talking about old Bastable? Poor chap took a nasty fall after a rather splendid night out.”
i wouldn’t know. that isn’t my department. however, i was called upon to play his role tonight.
“You’re from the agency too?” Hercule spoke in the manner of one discovering a fellow sufferer of his disease.
occasionally they have need of me, yes.
“Oh. Well, it’s an important role. Break a leg, good sir.”
thank you. i look forward to it.
“Care for a drop of Dutch courage before the show? Daphne tells me it’s the done thing nowadays, and where’s the harm in a bit of fun, says I?”
kind of you, but i fear i must decline. alcohol doesn’t agree with me. nor do the patrons. they think i spoil their enjoyment.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Well, best wishes tonight.”
The figure nodded and carried on. Eventually, Hercule’s good cheer froze over, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
That evening, the audience lurked in darkness, yet the stage blazed with spotlights. From the wings, Hercule watched—fascinated, yet judgmental—as dozens of “nymphs” danced across the stage to the backdrop of a Grecian beach.
He wore the crown. On his head, it felt oddly insubstantial, and often he had to remind himself it was there by touching it. Strange. He could’ve sworn it was heavier…
“Looking forward to it?” His darling nymph—true nymph—Daphne patted him on the shoulder.
He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Mixing classic mythology with modern sensibilities? Daphne my dear, you’ve outdone yourself. If only real life were as inventive.”
“You tease!” She slapped him across the rear, an irritating quirk he nonetheless forbore. “Get out there, my prince charming! Make it a showstopper!”
He bowed and once more strode out.
“These revelries please me beyond all I deserve!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “To distract my tormented soul with earthly delights… What an invention of mortal man! But who’s this?”
The figure stepped out of the shadows, scythe glinting.
all good shows must come to an end! it bellowed.
Hercule frowned. He looked at the figure’s mask, then at the scythe.
and all crimes must be met with unholy vengeance.
He opened his mouth to speak his final line…
…and too late, penetrated the illusion.
The scythe swung.
Hercule’s body hit the stage.
But he? He was standing up. Amid the standing ovation and the next song, his spirit still bore the crown on his head.
Sadly, he looked up into the figure’s face. “It was a good try, at least. I do wish you hadn’t been so theatrical about it.”
Death leaned forwards, skull grinning. classic mythology meets modern sensibilities. i couldn’t resist either.
“Touché.”
now let bygones be bygones. i rather think you should enjoy a good drink with me. i’m afraid i only have acheron spirits, and the service where I come from is frankly hell. at least it’s more interesting than haunting a theatre all your afterlife.
“Good sport indeed!”
hm. tell me: why exactly did you do this? The figure plucked the crown from Hercule’s head.
Hercule shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’ll try anything once.”
Hercule Nottingham hurried into the studio, slammed the door, bolted every bolt, and leaned against it. Breathing heavily, he lifted the satchel and noted with satisfaction how much heavier it was now.
“Daphne said it couldn’t be done,” he breathed. “Orpheus, Persephone: none made it out successfully, she said. Well…”
His grin stretched. Eventually, one rummaging hand came out with his prize.
“…there’s a first time for everything.”
Under the spotlights, the crown glinted. And Hercule laughed, because he was still full of life.
He dumped the thing in the props box. There were countless fake crowns in there; what better hiding place for Daphne’s priceless prize than among fakes?
Oddly, the real crown somehow seemed less convincingly shiny and bejeweled than the fake ones. Perhaps it was because the fakes were made with paper and glue. There was a tendency towards overcompensation, when one had the merest materials.
Hercule nodded to the other stagehands and smiled and charmed and waved and generally was Hercule Nottingham, the Errol Flynn of modern theatre—so Daphne liked to think of him—the Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart too whenever it suited. Hercule Nottingham, a man of many talents. Hercule Nottingham, who had just robbed the King of Death blind.
An unfamiliar face passed him by. Frowning with puzzlement, he stopped and rounded on the figure. Tall, darkly clad, holding something…
Yet when he tried to focus… No, he must’ve been hallucinating from all the excitement.
“Excuse me,” he said, sounding more chipper than he felt.
Grimly, the figure turned.
Hercule sagged with relief: a perfectly ordinary man. “Are you new? I always make a point of welcoming newcomers.”
yes.
Hercule stuck a finger in his ear. The words… He had the odd sensation they’d always been there, yet his ears were adamant nothing had come through.
Nonetheless, he held out a hand. “Hercule Nottingham. If there’s anything you require, don’t hesitate to ask.”
The grip was… for a moment, icy. Far too thin and hard.
kind of you. i fear i won’t be here long.
“Oh?”
i’m merely a replacement.
“You’re not by any chance talking about old Bastable? Poor chap took a nasty fall after a rather splendid night out.”
i wouldn’t know. that isn’t my department. however, i was called upon to play his role tonight.
“You’re from the agency too?” Hercule spoke in the manner of one discovering a fellow sufferer of his disease.
occasionally they have need of me, yes.
“Oh. Well, it’s an important role. Break a leg, good sir.”
thank you. i look forward to it.
“Care for a drop of Dutch courage before the show? Daphne tells me it’s the done thing nowadays, and where’s the harm in a bit of fun, says I?”
kind of you, but i fear i must decline. alcohol doesn’t agree with me. nor do the patrons. they think i spoil their enjoyment.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Well, best wishes tonight.”
The figure nodded and carried on. Eventually, Hercule’s good cheer froze over, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
That evening, the audience lurked in darkness, yet the stage blazed with spotlights. From the wings, Hercule watched—fascinated, yet judgmental—as dozens of “nymphs” danced across the stage to the backdrop of a Grecian beach.
He wore the crown. On his head, it felt oddly insubstantial, and often he had to remind himself it was there by touching it. Strange. He could’ve sworn it was heavier…
“Looking forward to it?” His darling nymph—true nymph—Daphne patted him on the shoulder.
He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Mixing classic mythology with modern sensibilities? Daphne my dear, you’ve outdone yourself. If only real life were as inventive.”
“You tease!” She slapped him across the rear, an irritating quirk he nonetheless forbore. “Get out there, my prince charming! Make it a showstopper!”
He bowed and once more strode out.
“These revelries please me beyond all I deserve!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “To distract my tormented soul with earthly delights… What an invention of mortal man! But who’s this?”
The figure stepped out of the shadows, scythe glinting.
all good shows must come to an end! it bellowed.
Hercule frowned. He looked at the figure’s mask, then at the scythe.
and all crimes must be met with unholy vengeance.
He opened his mouth to speak his final line…
…and too late, penetrated the illusion.
The scythe swung.
Hercule’s body hit the stage.
But he? He was standing up. Amid the standing ovation and the next song, his spirit still bore the crown on his head.
Sadly, he looked up into the figure’s face. “It was a good try, at least. I do wish you hadn’t been so theatrical about it.”
Death leaned forwards, skull grinning. classic mythology meets modern sensibilities. i couldn’t resist either.
“Touché.”
now let bygones be bygones. i rather think you should enjoy a good drink with me. i’m afraid i only have acheron spirits, and the service where I come from is frankly hell. at least it’s more interesting than haunting a theatre all your afterlife.
“Good sport indeed!”
hm. tell me: why exactly did you do this? The figure plucked the crown from Hercule’s head.
Hercule shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’ll try anything once.”
Has a bit of an "ends on a punchline" issue, which is a recurring thing with most short stories, but I enjoyed the flow of the prose. Well done!
Good Stuff: This has a Pratchett-like feel to it, and that's a good thing! The polite dialogue between Hercule and Death was the highlight, and I was charmed by Hercule's characterization very quickly. Who can resist a gentleman thief who's also an actor? The absurdity is delightful, and there's also some cool worldbuilding notes too, like Daphne being a real nymph and Death describing what drinking in the afterlife is like. The writing is good. The pacing seems right up until the end. The tone is just a lot of fun, and I respect that.
Bad Stuff: The ending is where it fumbles for me. The way it's written, I was confused at first; was Hercule really dead, or had he always been dead? I figure the former, but the dialogue briefly makes it sound like something else. Also, Hercule's reaction to being dead is underwhelming. He needs to be a little more shocked at least, because if it's not at least believable, then there's no grounding for a punchline either, and I think you were trying to be funny there. The last line is a bit of a damp squib too. There's more to him than that, isn't there? You could have thought more about what we'd seen of his character up to that point and how he did it for Daphne or for the art or something.
Verdict: Solid Entry. Disappointing and confusing as the ending is, the rest of it is so strong and fun and charmingly off-kilter than I came away thinking more about its strengths than about its weaknesses. Just tidy up the ending and you'd have a top contender here, I think.
Bad Stuff: The ending is where it fumbles for me. The way it's written, I was confused at first; was Hercule really dead, or had he always been dead? I figure the former, but the dialogue briefly makes it sound like something else. Also, Hercule's reaction to being dead is underwhelming. He needs to be a little more shocked at least, because if it's not at least believable, then there's no grounding for a punchline either, and I think you were trying to be funny there. The last line is a bit of a damp squib too. There's more to him than that, isn't there? You could have thought more about what we'd seen of his character up to that point and how he did it for Daphne or for the art or something.
Verdict: Solid Entry. Disappointing and confusing as the ending is, the rest of it is so strong and fun and charmingly off-kilter than I came away thinking more about its strengths than about its weaknesses. Just tidy up the ending and you'd have a top contender here, I think.
I'm sure there's lots of symbolism here, but as I have little to no knowledge on Greco-Roman mythology past watching Disney's Hercules nearly twenty years ago and what I read on Wikipedia just now, it flies over my head. It's a bit odd to see Hercule(s?) and the Grim Reaper together, though.
The story feels pretty fantastic, in the fantasy sense of the word--rooted in realism, but with touches of myth and magic. I liked that quite a bit. Felt kind of like Fables.
Hercule steals the crown of the King of Death, but it feels like the crown is merely there to give Death a reason to come after Hercule. Without giving it any inherent importance, the crown seems a bit played up--it was "less convincingly shiny and bejeweled" than the fake crowns, after all. Not that there's anything wrong with MacGuffins, but it could use some fleshing out, I think.
On that note, Hercule's motive for stealing the crown in the first place feels rather hand-waved.
The phrase "robbed the King of Death blind" appears twice, but the "blind" part of it doesn't seem to come into play during the story.
> Grimly, the figure turned.
This was cute.
The story feels pretty fantastic, in the fantasy sense of the word--rooted in realism, but with touches of myth and magic. I liked that quite a bit. Felt kind of like Fables.
Hercule steals the crown of the King of Death, but it feels like the crown is merely there to give Death a reason to come after Hercule. Without giving it any inherent importance, the crown seems a bit played up--it was "less convincingly shiny and bejeweled" than the fake crowns, after all. Not that there's anything wrong with MacGuffins, but it could use some fleshing out, I think.
On that note, Hercule's motive for stealing the crown in the first place feels rather hand-waved.
The phrase "robbed the King of Death blind" appears twice, but the "blind" part of it doesn't seem to come into play during the story.
> Grimly, the figure turned.
This was cute.
My review:
Characters and Dialogue: The end of this fic gave us a real look at the characters' personalities in a funny, lighthearted way. It's just a shame that it had to occur then, as the previous events of the story feel kind of unmotivated, when I have no idea who this Hercule Nottingham is or what his motivations were for the theft (or even how the theft occurred).
It felt a little off, that Hercule so unbelievably couldn't take a hint that the "replacement actor" was bad news for him. But I guess that's just comedy writing; and if that was truly the goal, I might recommend changing Hercule's suspicion level from "on the fence" to "almost totally clueless," since the latter is how I'm going to interpret him anyway.
I'm also not sure what mixing of classical mythology and modern sensibilities Daphne is guilty of.
Plot and Pacing: I liked the plot, though the introduction of Hercule as an actor was sort of confusing at first. "Hercule nodded to the other stagehands and smiled and charmed and waved and generally was Hercule Nottingham, the Errol Flynn of modern theatre—so Daphne liked to think of him." This is the first definitive reference we have to him being an actor and being on a set, but it's done vaguely, so we don't even know if it's before or after a show, whether he really is a bigshot, etc. This is compounded slightly by the fact that we don't even know Daphne is his lover (my first theory was that she was simply his thief-cohort).
Pretty good pacing overall, but some details (although interesting) were superfluous. Like: "Oddly, the real crown somehow seemed less convincingly shiny and bejeweled than the fake ones. Perhaps it was because the fakes were made with paper and glue. There was a tendency towards overcompensation, when one had the merest materials." EDIT: Actually, never mind, this is a subtle introduction later on to the fact that Hercule was wearing a paper crown, and not a real one, right? That Death must've switched it at some point?
Final: This fic will likely land in the middle of my ballot. At first, it was nearer the bottom, but giving it a re-read or two, I've been convinced there's more purpose in how you wrote it than I originally gave credit.
Characters and Dialogue: The end of this fic gave us a real look at the characters' personalities in a funny, lighthearted way. It's just a shame that it had to occur then, as the previous events of the story feel kind of unmotivated, when I have no idea who this Hercule Nottingham is or what his motivations were for the theft (or even how the theft occurred).
It felt a little off, that Hercule so unbelievably couldn't take a hint that the "replacement actor" was bad news for him. But I guess that's just comedy writing; and if that was truly the goal, I might recommend changing Hercule's suspicion level from "on the fence" to "almost totally clueless," since the latter is how I'm going to interpret him anyway.
I'm also not sure what mixing of classical mythology and modern sensibilities Daphne is guilty of.
Plot and Pacing: I liked the plot, though the introduction of Hercule as an actor was sort of confusing at first. "Hercule nodded to the other stagehands and smiled and charmed and waved and generally was Hercule Nottingham, the Errol Flynn of modern theatre—so Daphne liked to think of him." This is the first definitive reference we have to him being an actor and being on a set, but it's done vaguely, so we don't even know if it's before or after a show, whether he really is a bigshot, etc. This is compounded slightly by the fact that we don't even know Daphne is his lover (my first theory was that she was simply his thief-cohort).
Pretty good pacing overall, but some details (although interesting) were superfluous. Like: "Oddly, the real crown somehow seemed less convincingly shiny and bejeweled than the fake ones. Perhaps it was because the fakes were made with paper and glue. There was a tendency towards overcompensation, when one had the merest materials." EDIT: Actually, never mind, this is a subtle introduction later on to the fact that Hercule was wearing a paper crown, and not a real one, right? That Death must've switched it at some point?
Final: This fic will likely land in the middle of my ballot. At first, it was nearer the bottom, but giving it a re-read or two, I've been convinced there's more purpose in how you wrote it than I originally gave credit.