#constable dice

[dizzysilhouette]

Hey Dice... how are you doin?

Dice tips his helmet in a short greeting. “‘M alright…” he began, “Er, rather, not. I upset Alan.”

He looks away ashamedly, a worried look on his face. “I gotta make it up t’ him. But I think ‘e wants a break…”

[we-joyless-few]

Alan: God, I LOVE women!!!

Alan: ….

Dice: …?

Alan: And Constable Dice :)

Dice: :) <3

[joys-guys]

Pip: King, I don’t know what t’ do.

Kingsley: What’s the matter?

Pip: I think I might be in love with yer ex.

Kingsley: Awwww, my baby brother’s in love~

Pip: …I regret sayin’ anythin’…

[average-wellington-wellie]

Visiting the Constable

OOC: I wanted to write the next entry in Alan’s story in fic format, so this one’s a one-shot for you, folks! Story is under the cut <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early in the morning, Alan Days began his trek to a certain constable's house. Chilly air brushed across his skin as he walked, the only other sound besides his soft breathing being his boots' soles against the asphalt.

With every step he took, Days felt more and more anxious; the last time he had seen the constable was when he had to pick up his wife Carolyn when she "had a couple sips of whiskey and stumbled [her] way over to his house."

'Yeah, likely story, Carolyn,' Alan thought bitterly at the memory.

It didn't take too much longer for him to get to the location he desired, but he wished it did. He didn't want to start a fight, nor get into any trouble. 'It's just to talk and maybe ask questions, Alan, how hard can it really be?'

Alan took a deep breath, then let it out slowly to calm his nerves. Then he took initiative, stepping up to the door and knocking politely. He heard some rustling around inside before the door slowly opened. A rather tired-looking man wearing just a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top stood on the other side.

“Hello, Constable Dice. I’m sorry to bother you at such an early time,” Days began, “but I wanted to get this over with. May I come in?”

Constable Dice rubbed his eyes, then nodded, moving out of the way so his guest could enter. “Yer always welcome here, y’know, Alan.”

“O-oh! Thank you, that’s- that’s really kind of you.” Alan’s cheeks warmed slightly at the kind gesture. “I… have some things I need to talk to you about.”

Dice sat on his sofa and patted beside him, nodding to the other to continue once he sat. The smaller man softly thanked him before saying, “It’s about Carolyn. I know she made everything up.”

“I- ack!” The constable nearly choked on his own saliva. “U-uhm, hold on a moment.” He cleared his throat and shook himself awake a bit, then gently wrapped his arm around Alan. “I’m sorry.”

Days gave him a confused look. “What, did you have something to do with it?”

“Nay, I jus’… I heard about it, since the other bobbies were gossipin’ about the whole thing.” Dice looked at the carpet, idly tracing the patterns with his eyes. “I didn’t want to believe it. But I shoulda told ya the rumors anyway, and tha’s on me.”

Alan sadly nodded and reached up to hold the other’s hand that was on his shoulder. “I can’t blame you. I… I was nervous about coming here. I was scared I’d lose a friend, because maybe we’d fight or you’d have something to do with the whole thing. I knew you wouldn’t do something so… awful, but it’s hard to trust people right now.”

"I understand, and I'm sorry." Dice held Alan close and let him cry into his chest. "Tha's it, let it all out... Ye can stay with me as long as ya need to."

"Thank you, thank you, Dice," Days whimpered, clinging to the larger man.

Dice placed a soft kiss atop Alan's head. "Anythin' fer you, Alan."

[viric-dreams]

Jones Has a Coffee Date

The café is nearly packed, and the wall of noise hits Jones’ ears the moment he opens the door. It’s more than the usual lunch rush—students huddled at the large tables, gesticulating wildly at their notes and each other. In one corner, a trio of tomb colonists set out a game board and a pair of dice. A couple brush passed him, wandering out into the humid London air hand-in-hand. There’s too much going on for him to keep track of; too many faces to watch for suspicious behaviour. But there’s not much that he can do about it. 

He spots the man at a circular table against the back wall, near to the kitchens. The man wiggles his fingers at him in a silly approximation of a wave. At least the bastard had the sense to pick an unobtrusive spot in this chaotic café. With a deep breath, Jones puts on his best pleasant face and wades his way through the sea of patrons. 

A few feet from the table, his foot catches against the leg of a neighbouring chair and he stumbles, arms just barely reaching out to brace against a table in time. The couple occupying it startle at his landing, cups rattling, but drinks ultimately unspilt. From the corner table, the man chuckles at this, his laughter a dry and sour thing. 

“Jonesy, you made it!” He opens his arms wide to punctuate the greeting. He’s too loud, even in such a busy place. Jones slides into the seat across from him to try to close the distance. 

“I’m glad you came,” the man says. 

Jones nods in acknowledgement. “You asked.”

You gave me no choice. 

He grins at this, and Jones feels his stomach turn. 

He’s not saying anything more, just sat there holding that ridiculous, grating expression like he has nowhere else to be today. And perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps London’s finest truly have nothing better to do than to schedule coffee dates. 

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work—”

“No, no, Jones. Don’t worry about me. Worry about you. Now, how do you take your coffee?” 

Dear Christ, he doesn't have time for this. The Kolomanian Delegation’s celebration dinner is two hours from now. They’re far too close to the hotel for comfort. Any of his “fellow countrymen” could see him here talking to a constable, and even in plainclothes, the stench of the man is potent enough to even the most dimwitted of spies.

“An espresso, please.” 

This seems to delight him.

“One of those fancy drinks? I like that about you, Jones.” 

Please be quiet. Please stop saying my name.

The constable waves over a waitress with a wild swing of his arm. 

“One coffee for me, bring sugar. And green tea for my friend here… And we’ll take something to eat too. Maybe those little cakes.” 

If he’s hoping to get a rise out of him, Jones refuses to grant him that satisfaction. His hand curls loosely around the mug, letting the warmth permeate into his palm, whilst The Smug Constable takes a too-large bite of a jellied mushroom cake. His own remains untouched on its plate. 

“These things are really good,” The Slovenly Constable says, his mouth half full of pastry. Crumbs spill out onto his jacket, “You’ve got to give them a try.”

“I’m sure they are.” His hand wraps tighter around the mug. 

The tea tastes of nothing, only heat. He’s not sure if this is the fault of the beverage or his abused taste buds, desensitised to worrying amounts of coffee and that bitter aromatic the doctor had given him. All so that he can do his job. A job he’s unsure the constable is aware of. 

For nearly two months they’ve had this back and forth—the man calls and he comes. This uncomfortable dance that’s taken place since the ominous moment he’d come into Jones’ life, claiming to know who he is, that he’d finally put two and two together after that fateful arrest on New Years Eve. But he’d be willing to look past his sin, let the cop killer be. The Forgiving Constable is a generous man, after all. Jones simply needs to do him one little favour and it’ll all be forgotten. 

And here they sit, finally in the same room. A proper meeting—no last minute being stood up this time—and getting nowhere, that favour left dangling, unspoken. Instead, he sits across from the bastard in his chair, an errant glob of jelly in his ugly beard that he won’t wipe away–why won’t he wipe his face–picking away at this cake, as if he has all the time in the world and—

“Are you enjoying the Games so far?” The way he makes it sound like such friendly small talk makes his blood boil. Like two friends having a casual chat. 

How much does he know? 

Does he suspect Jones has been acting as a double agent? Very few agents of Black are even aware, only adding to his feelings of unease in the field. Likely, the man’s just fishing. 

“I can’t say I’ve seen much of it. Been keeping to myself, mostly.”

Will he call out the blatant lie? If the man clocks it as one, he doesn’t seem to give any indication of it, polishing off the cake to take a deep swig of coffee, before picking up the one from Jones’ plate. The jam remains, stubbornly clinging to his facial hair. 

“Is that so? I’ll bet you’ve got all sorts of fun little hobbies with all of that time on your hands now. You enjoying your freedom, jailbird?”

The snarl becomes a smile before the constable has the chance to spot the expression. 

“Indeed.” Jones replies sweetly, bringing the cup to his lips. This time, he doesn’t even register the heat, outsmoked by his own slow-roiling anger. This is another dead end. The Jam-Covered Constable has no intention of making requests, it’s simply another one of his silly plays. Jones knows this game, and has had enough of it. The man’s had his fun today, let him call again if he’s serious about–

“I saw our mutual friend the other day.” The man swipes at his lip with the back of his hand, just missing that spot of jam, hanging precariously. “He asked about you, you know. ‘How’s ol’ Robert doing? You keeping an eye on him?’” He leans forward, his sour breath wafting across the table, “What do you think I should tell him?”

Tell him I’m going to claw his eyes out of his fucking skull. I’ll break his fucking fingers and push them down his throat.

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

The constable frowns at this and reaches across the table. His hand wraps around Jones’ wrist, prying it from the cup. “Are you sure about that? You look so frail. Nothing like the man I arrested on New Years. Have you been eating, Jonesy?”

He wants to leap across the table and grab him by his stupid collar, smash that smug face of his into the table until it’s nothing but pulp and mushroom jelly. Over and over again until they have to pry him off of what’s left of him. Dig his fingers into muscle and bone and–

“...should take better care of yourself. A man who lives alone can’t afford to be ill. Not when he has to keep working.”

Jones gently slides his arm free from the man’s grip. He makes no effort to hold on. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and when the constable makes no effort to continue the conversation Jones sets a few Echoes down onto the table. “I take it we’re done here, then?”

The man stares at him a moment, before leaning back in his seat. The derisive demeanour slides back onto his face.

“I’m looking forward to the next one, Jonesy. I might have a favour to ask of you then. Perhaps. But for now, be good.”

His hip clips the side of a table on his way out of the crowded café. He doesn’t even feel it.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"WARNS OF MENACE OF ORGANIZED CRIME," Toronto Star. March 27, 1934. Page 7. ---- Chief Draper Tells Board of Trade Club of Need for Vigilance --- HOPES FOR RADIO ---- Good Law Enforcement More Important Than Good Laws, He Declares ---- "Organized crime is the greatest menace to the lives and property of the citizens of Canada," declared Chief Constable D. C. Draper, addressing about 150 members of the Board of Trade club in the Royal Bank Building last night on the importance of law enforcement in large communities, and stressing the fact that although it was important that every community have good laws, good law enforcement was more essential.

"Organized crime has gained foot-hold in some other countries that we hope will never be the case here," he continued. "The organized gambler is probably the most dangerous form of organized crime in our community at present.

"The gangster has not gained a foot-hold here, and his business does not flourish, but unless there is constant vigilance, the organized gangster will rapidly gain a foot-hold in any community. He brings out the basest qualities of a man. He is the type who plays with stacked cards and loaded dice and in his wake follow the gunman, professional robber and dopester.

"These men are dangerous because they have financial backing, and are in a position to call to their aid the most dangerous classes of the community and draw from those classes in the country to the south of us. They are in a position, if given an opportunity, to undermine law in an insidious manner. There is no corruption to which they would not stoop."

Chief Draper told his audience how the Toronto police force was made up and the duties of each member. "The chief duty of all is to maintain peace, order and good government," he stated, "and the three essentials are integrity, experience and training, and discipline. One dishonest constable can undermine the good work of a dozen others. either by a failure to do his duty or by communication of information to someone connected with the criminal classes."

He advised people not to take the "white-collared" criminal-the man who commits forgeries or promotes a fraudulent company-too lightly. "He is the kind that mixes with the best of the community and destroys all too many."

The speaker took his listeners down through the southern states with a description of the trip that he recently took down there on his holidays.

"While I was travelling I got information about the value of radios in cars for police, which I hope may be of use, in time, to the police of Toronto," he said.

"It is a decided asset to a police force. It keeps all cars and stations in touch with each other and it makes it possible to mass all cars at a certain spot within a few moments."

[docpiplup]

Federico García Lorca, Luis Buñuel, Salvador Dalí & Pepín Bello + La Orden de Toledo (Parte 1)

Vagar durante toda una noche por

Toledo, borracho y en completa soledad.

No lavarse durante la estancia.

Acudir a la ciudad una vez al año.

Amar a Toledo por encima de todas las cosas.

Velar el sepulcro del Cardenal Tavera.

(Wander for a whole night through Toledo, drunk and in complete solitude)

(do not wash during these days)

(go to the city once a year)

(Love Toledo above all things)

(Watch over the tomb of Cardinal Tavera)

》 Me parece que fue en 1921 cuando en compañía del filólogo A. G. Solalinde descubrí Toledo. Llegamos de Madrid en tren y nos quedamos dos o tres días. Desde el primer día quedé prendado, más que de la belleza turística de la ciudad de su ambiente indefinible.

(I think it was in 1921 I was in company of the philologist A. G. Solalinde when I discovered Toledo. We arrived from Madrid by train and stayed two or three days. From the first day I was captivated, more than the tourist beauty of the city of its indefinable atmosphere)

》 El día de San José de 1923, fundé la «Orden de Toledo», de la que me nombré a mi mismo condestable. Aquella «Orden» funcionó y siguió admitiendo nuevos miembros hasta 1936. La decisión de fundar la «Orden» la tomé, como todos los fundadores, después de tener una visión. Se encuentran por casualidad dos grupos de amigos y se van a beber por las tabernas de Toledo. Yo formo parte de uno de los grupos. Me paseo por el claustro gótico de la catedral, completamente borracho, cuando, de pronto, oigo cantar miles de pájaros y algo me dice que debo entrar inmediatamente en Los Carmelitas, no para hacerme fraile, sino para robar la caja del convento. Me voy al convento, el portero me abre la puerta y viene un fraile. Le hablo de mi súbito y ferviente deseo de hacerme carmelita. Él, que sin duda ha notado el olor a vino, me acompaña a la puerta. Al día siguiente tomé la decisión de fundar la “Orden de Toledo”. 

(On Saint Joseph's day in 1923, I founded the "Order of Toledo", from which I named myself constable. That "Order" worked and continued to admit new members until 1936. The decision to found the "Order" was made, like all founders, after having a vision. Two groups of friends meet by chance and go to drink in the taverns of Toledo. I am part of one of the groups. I walk through the gothic cloister of the cathedral, completely drunk, when suddenly I hear thousands of birds singing and something tells me that I must immediately enter Los Carmelitas, not to become a friar, but to steal the convent's cash. I go to the convent, the doorman opens the door for me and a friar comes. I tell him about my sudden and fervent desire to become a Carmelite. He noticed the smell of wine, so he walks me to the door. The next day I made the decision to found the “Order of Toledo”.)

Pepín Bello era el secretario. Entre los fundadores estaban Lorca y su hermano Paquito, Sánchez Ventura, Pedro Garfias, Augusto Centeno, el pintor vasco José Uzelay y una sola mujer, muy exaltada, discípula de Unamuno en Salamanca, la bibliotecaria Ernestina González. Venían después los caballeros, los escuderos, los invitados de los escuderos y los invitados de los invitados de los escuderos. Para acceder al rango de caballero había que amar a Toledo sin reserva, emborracharse por lo menos durante toda una noche y vagar por las calles. Los que preferían acostarse temprano no podían optar más que al título de escudero. De los invitados y de los invitados de los invitados ya ni hablo.

(Pepín Bello was the secretary. Among the founders were Lorca and his brother Paquito, Sánchez Ventura, Pedro Garfias, Augusto Centeno, the basque painter José Uzelay, and a single woman, very excited, a disciple of Unamuno in Salamanca, the librarian Ernestina González. Then came the knights, the squires, the guests of the squires, and the guests of the guests of the squires. To attain the rank of knight, one had to love Toledo without reservation, get drunk for at least one night, and roam the streets. Those who preferred to go to bed early could only opt for the title of squire. I don't even talk about the guests and the guests of the guests.)

Luis Buñuel

[dizzysilhouette]

Dice, what happened to Peridot?

Dice crosses his arms and shakes his head, his brows furrowed and his lips in a tight, wavering line.

His eyes are wet as he averts his gaze.

He’s holding his ringed hand to his chest as if the metal band would dissipate if he didn’t.

Peridot was long gone, so it was all he had left of them.

[fishpr0phet]

[Image Description: A series of three art pieces that resemble tarot cards. The first image is digital art featuring a Clay Man in a white robe and holding a staff looking into the distance. In the background is a cedar tree. At the top is text that says "9. The Hermit". The second image is a gouache art piece featuring an owl, fox, bear, and cat circling a pair of dice. The art is framed with a thick gold border. At the top is text that says "10. The Wheel of Fortune". The third features the Last Constable facing away from the viewer. She wears a black coat and is blindfolded, and holds a pair of scales and a vial of red liquid. Golden lines radiate from her head. At the top is text that says "11. Justice”. /end ID]

Neathy Arcana [4/7] It’s been a while since the last ones (life happens), but here are the next three. The Wheel of Fortune card was done traditionally with gouache, while the other are digital as usual!

strength: the king of a hundred hearts/polythreme // the wheel of fortune: devilbone die + main stats // justice: the last constable

[titan-god-helios]

egg: fried with runny yolk OR onsen egg steak: medium rare milk: full fat alcohol: rose, beer, (mulled) wine, fruity liquor - pretty much anything. i can drink strong stuff too but it doesnt taste nice so why would i unless ive had a shit day or smth potato: also in all ways i love potato - but i love them diced, oil over top, salt, pepper, paprika, oregano and then in the oven spice: i have the bare minimum spice tolerance to enjoy moderately spicy food - anything more and i dont like it

@rainnism, @constable-rohza @dsm--v @transboysgetknives @etherealspacejelly

[joys-guys]

What would happen if Dice and Alan broke up?

They would end things amicably

(if they didn’t, Dice would probably have to move out of Alan’s house and back to his own, but he’d probably eventually do that anyway if/when he marries dear Miss Walker)

and Alan would probably end up with Lionel DeVill. It would certainly be awkward, though, for Lionel and Dice to interact again at first.

Good question 😊

[average-wellington-wellie]

I’ve been staying out of that house for I think a couple days now, and I’ve been staying with Constable Dice.

I’ve made sure to contribute around the house, of course! And he said he loves having someone around again…

Gosh, friends, I’m feeling something…<3

[schizografia]

Godere della natura! Sono contento di poter affermare di aver completamente perduto tale facoltà. Si dice che l’Arte ci faccia amare la Natura più di quanto l’amassimo prima, che ce ne riveli i segreti, e che, dopo aver studiato attentamente Corot e Constable, vediamo in essa cose che prima erano sfuggite alla nostra osservazione. Secondo la mia esperienza, più studiamo l’Arte, meno ci interessa la Natura. Quello che l’Arte ci rivela davvero è la mancanza di un disegno della Natura, le sue pecche curiose, la sua straordinaria monotonia, la sua condizione di assoluta incompiutezza. La natura ha buone intenzioni, naturalmente, ma, come disse una volta Aristotele, non riesce a realizzarle.

Quando osservo un paesaggio non posso fare a meno di notarne tutti i difetti. È comunque un bene per noi che la natura sia così imperfetta, altrimenti l’Arte non sarebbe mai esistita. L’arte è la nostra protesta vibrante, il nostro prode tentativo di insegnare alla Natura quale sia il suo ruolo. Per quanto concerne l’infinita varietà della Natura, si tratta di un puro mito. Tale varietà non risiede nella Natura, quanto piuttosto nell’immaginazione, o fantasia, o erudita cecità dell’uomo che la contempla.

Oscar Wilde, La decadenza della menzogna

[princess-of-france]

MARGOT The trumpet sounds. The battle is upon us. My lady—good Montjoie, as I should say— The time is struck. We must away to safety, Or stay for certain doom. I prithee, come! Think of the King, whose comfort must derive From thy reportage.

CATHERINE Thou shalt deliver all my news to him And to the Queen. Myself will keep the field. Rebuke me not. Today my world is here, Impossible to leave as lose my fear.

MARGOT ‘Tis not thy fight.

CATHERINE Ay, but it is, Margot.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act IV, scene iii)

CONSTABLE What trumpet’s that?

CATHERINE The English rally forth.

CONSTABLE Again! They mock us with their repetition: Another blast, another thousand dead. Is ‘t not enough to win, but they must force The bloody rag of victory all down Our throats that we die choking on the word, “Surrender”?

GRANDPRÉ Beshrew the tongue that utters it!

CATHERINE Yet must be spoken.—Send a messenger With all approving haste unto the English, Nay even to the bosom of their leader; Congratulate his rightful victory, (However wrongfully he came upon ‘t) And bid him gloriously his thousand bows, His armor, and his flesh-devouring swords Lay down. Tell him we do surrender us  Unto the mercy of the English, if Such mercy doth or ever could exist. Go to, sirrah. Dost not perceive our fate?

GRANDPRÉ God pardon me to live and cry “too late”! That which the soul consents not to endorse Is not the scourge of fate, but heavenly trial.

CONSTABLE A noble thought.

CATHERINE And wouldst condemn a thousand yet unslain To sacrilegious rites in bloody mire? Find out a messenger.

CONSTABLE Ay, do it, man.

GRANDPRÉ Her woman’s folly doth excuse her fear, Yet burns a Frenchman’s spirit in me still.— Sound the alarm.

            Alarum.

CATHERINE What hast thou done? Our countrymen cannot Sustain the fight. Their deaths are on thy conscience.

GRANDPRÉ What color is the sky? Is it not blue? Lies not today upon the English king?

CONSTABLE No doubt—and yet methinks the sky is grey.

CATHERINE But wherefore couldst thou not dispatch the truth?

GRANDPRÉ “Dispatch”? Now there’s an iron word well-wrought. I will dispatch, and live in ignorance Of all the shame my brethren endured Upon the feast of Crispian.             (stabs himself) Be it known Lord Granpré died of fatal bravery, As men of battle should, and like the saints Of time forgotten, marched into his grave. Transcribe it thus,—

            GRANDPRÉ dies.

CONSTABLE In heaven’s almanac, O brave Grandpré. Thy due shall be the cup Of glory’s milk, whiles angels kiss thy wound, For sure as stone, thou diest a soldier’s death. In faith, methinks we two shall shortly be Confederates in muddy salvation.

CATHERINE My captain’s face is pale. What ails you, sir? Alas, why sink you down? Good Constable! Thy sides are wet. What is this? What is this?

CONSTABLE The color of the English, good Montjoie. A liquid shroud of conquering crimson Binds up my ruined corse.

CATHERINE Speak not. What breath Thou hast, thou must needs save for healing.

CONSTABLE No. That time is past; ‘twas never time at all.

CATHERINE Canst not leave rain to God? Or to the sky, This leaking roof of Azincourt, which swamps Our gorish land with sluicing blood, and wracks Our frigid bones as they were dice, but thou Must add cruel drops of grief unto mine eyes? Take pity on thy herald, Constable. Let him not drown in these unasked-for floods. Stand, stand, I say! Bid me return to Henry, Bid me capitulate unto his crown, Bid me proclaim the glories of the English   Till that my jaw o’er-rusts and jails my tongue, Bid me forever doff these herald’s weeds And call myself but Catherine of Valois, Submissive daughter to a severed king, Yet do not go with Peter when he calls! Thrust out the angels, tell God He must wait His holy turn, prove me a foolish woman, Defy my fears, and live.

CONSTABLE Hear me, Montjoie. ‘Tis nothing much to die. Men do it oft. A thousand fates there are worser than hell: To die before the truth is utterèd, To live a lie and die upon the truth. Say thou to Orléans—my only friend, My good, my joy—tell him I stay for him.

CATHERINE Yet tell him so thyself.

CONSTABLE The trickling sands of time torment my blood. Too slow, too slow it comes. Montjoie, dear sir, Upon thy uniform I charge thee: spare Thy noble captain this betrudging death. It boots him not to crawl the path to heaven.

CATHERINE More bootless still, to charge thy courier A ripe assassin’s task. If thou canst suffer, Then thou canst survive. I will not drag That which belongs on earth to paradise Before the battle’s done. ‘Tis sacrilege ‘Gainst God and King and army, all at once! Think’st thou I hold my soul in such contempt?

CONSTABLE Contempted be the soul repudiates A righteous order from his captaincy.

CATHERINE Then do not, Constable, disgrace your office By issuing such dread commands as I Cannot obey. What did my brother chide? “Address thy princess correspondingly.” O, give me leave to be a princess now! My hands are cold, my heart is frail, My mind is bent to some villainous shape Such as I cannot think nor move nor breathe.

CONSTABLE Then hold thy breath as tightly as my sword, And so exhale them both.

CATHERINE Yet have some pity. Beg not this task of me. Too porcelain dainty Are my hands, my heart more precious still.             (stabs him) O God forgive me!

CONSTABLE Dwell upon it not. Most gracious herald, well-deserving queen, Thou art the truest soldier e’er served France.

CATHERINE The truest soldier lives, though only just, And I, the traitorous dog that bites his master, Only to stand guard above his corse.

CONSTABLE Talk not of dogs. The world is at an end; Let it be full of music, courage, light. Methinks a poet told me of a place Where laughter’s born and meadows blossom gold. I prithee, sing me there, that I may lie And breathe in sweet immaculate—

CATHERINE D’Albret?

CONSTABLE Sing, sing.

CATHERINE, sings What soft enamoring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charm’d death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade; But worlds away from me, alas, Down there where you are laid?             (he dies) Now heaven scour my crime, and Charles, farewell. Thou leavest me a heavy tale to tell.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act IV, scene vi)

@harry-leroy @suits-of-woe @skeleton-richard @lizbennett2013 @henriadical

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"SOLDIER JAILED 9 MONTHS FOR THEFTS OF BICYCLES," Toronto Star. September 13, 1943. Page 23. ---- Pte. John Good Sold Machines Worth $80 for $30 ---- HAD BAD RECORD --- "B" Police Court, City Hall, Magistrate Browne. Private John Good pleaded guilty to three charges of bicycle theft. The bicycles, Detective Walter Scott informed the court, were worth $80 and had been sold for $30. "Accused has a record," said Crown Council F. I. Malone. "He will be sentenced to nine months on each charge, concurrent sentences," said the court.

Pleading guilty to gambling on the Lord's Day, 13 men were each assessed $10 or 10 days. Plainclothesman James Henry testified he and other officers had found accused shooting dice Sunday in a Markham St. house.

Appearing for sentence on a charge of breaking into a branch of the Caulfield Dairy and stealing money, William Brossoit and Robert Dorland, who previously pleaded guilty, were each sentenced to four months definite and three months indefinite.

R. Baptie denied ill-treating a dog by beating it with his fists. He had only slapped it for running away, he stated. After hearing three witnesses testify the dog was making a loud outcry as if it had been run over by a car, a fine of $15 and costs was imposed.

"If you would see the dog greet me at night when I come home you wouldn't think it was ill-treated." said Baptie. "I admit I lost my temper after chasing it all over the district, but I only slapped it."

"Dumb animals soon forget," said the court.

BOY, 16, JAILED ---- "A" Police Court, City Hall, Magistrate Menzies. For stealing $13 from a Queen St. W. restaurant, Steve Hrychuck, 16, who pleaded guilty and who is at present on probation, was sentenced to three months definite and three months indefinite.

"He is very young," declared Austin Ross, defence counsel.

"Unfortunately a lot of stealing is being done by young men these days," replied the court.

Constable Jarratt said accused stole a box containing the money. "I found the box in his room. He had $6 left," said the officer.

Three months definite and three months indefinite was the sentence given John Thompson, 20. He admitted stealing a suit and a number of newspapers.

FINE FIVE GIPSIES ---- "C" Police Court. City Hall, Magistrate Pritchard. Pleading guilty, before Magistrate Pritchard, of failing to report for re-registration, Archie Bruno, Molly Mitchell, and Harold Bruno, were each fined $25 or 30 days. At the expiration of the term, if the fines are not paid, they will be handed. over to the military authorities. Louis Burt who pleaded guilty of failing to keep his registrar advised of an address where mail would reach him, was fined $25 or 30 days.

All four are members of the gipsy colony and were picked up in the recent round-up in the downtown district.

Theodore Butch, another gipsy. charged with failing to give his registrar his proper address, was fined $25 or 30 days.

FINE DRIVER $35 ---- D Police Court, City Hall. Magistrate Gullen. Pleading guilty of careless driving, Ernest Antilla was fined $35 and costs or 15 days.

"Accused's car." said P.C. Archie Gordon, "travelled 224 feet with one wheel locked after hitting a T.T.C. grinder, while he was south-bound on Yonge St."

IGNORES RED LIGHT ---- County Police Court, County Buildings, Magistrate Keith. "You drove through a red light and if anybody had happened to be walking there, he might have been killed," said Magistrate Keith. He fined Ross Comer $15 and costs for careless driving. On a charge of failing to notify the department of highways of change of ownership of the ear he was driving, he was fined $3 or three days.

"When they are sold out they can't do anything about it," said court in fining William Kirkpatrick $10 and costs or 10 days for causing a disturbance at a brewer's store on Saturday. "I had been waiting in line for about half an hour and then they said there was no more," said accused, pleading guilty.

Wallace J. Atkinson, 21, charged with failing to produce a registration card and with attempting to steal an automobile was remanded to Sept. 17. Bail was set at $1,000.

"I don't believe the evidence of accused," said the magistrate in finding James Bradley guilty of assaulting a woman. Accused was fined $10 and costs or 10 days and was ordered to stay away from her home.

The woman who said she was the mother of three children and that her husband was overseas, said Bradley had come into her rooms and had knocked her down with his fist.

She admitted having a hand on a beer bottle when Bradley approached.

"He said, so you want to sling beer bottles, and then he hit me." said complainant.

"Bradley took up a beer bottle and said he was going to beat her face so badly that no hospital would be able to fix it up again," testified Alfred Wells.

"I went into the room to talk to Wells," declared the accused, "and the woman took up a beer bottle and made for me. I took the bottle from her and pushed her back. "I did not either with my fist, I merely pushed her."

[zexxcandell]

Debt Collecting

(Reply to the quest provided by @eliceynbirch​ )

The Black Eyed Walrus was your typical seedy under the docks bar.  All manner of men, women,and who knows what made their way down here for the kind of quiet drink that made sure the constables wouldn’t look twice at it.  It was old, it was gross, it was unkempt, but it was the shadowy aesthetic that would be pirates craved and discovered they were not ready to be in.  Owned by Maggie, a one eyed crone who’s stories about her past life made men pale and ill treated women their hero, she’d come into possession of the dockside establishment via a strong bite and the early retirement of the previous owner.  Maggie was just Maggie, she didn’t have a last name that she was willing to share and by the muscle she hired to keep things in order no one pushed to ask about her personals.  Maggie was as much the bar as the bar was her. 

Despite how it looked, it held a huge part of Maggie’s heart and she’d be damned if anyone was going to ruin it.  The biggest source of pride of the crone’s was the large plate glass window she had purchased to look out onto the old dock outside and shadowy waters of the harbor.  It had cost quite a bit of gold and took some brave craftsmen to come down and install it for her.  She loved that window that she had painstakingly painted the visage of the bar’s namesake, a large walrus with a large black ring about it’s eye.  The literal personification of the woman in paint and time.  Maggie loved that window and her art as much if not more than the bar she never left.  

Sadly, a large figure was currently being launched through the window in a shower of glass and roar of a brawl within the bar.

Twenty minutes ago…

“An you are?”

“Zexx, Zexx Candell.”  A calloused and sea salt worn hand reached between the bottles of rum and liquor to grasp the other man’s hand firmly.

“Hoarse, Hoarse Darby,  pleasure tha Candell,” the sailor nodded genially as he broke the grip and lifted up his fresh bottle to his lips again followed by a hard pull of the alcohol.  Darby was young, dumb, and likely full of a troublesome substance but his thick corded arms and bald head did the trick to know him a tough bastard. He liked it that way. He also liked it when free drinks followed winning a few rounds of dice with a stranger.

“Likewise, mate, you took me for quite a ride there,” Zexx replied with a wide toothy grin.  If not for the thick salt and peppered beard, the laugh lines of the man would have been very clear.  But for all the smiles and laughs, his one blue eye was slightly red and carried a sadness that only comes from true loss.  “I swear I can roll better.”

“In mah experience that more ya drink tha better the dice seem ta follah,” Hoarse replied with his own grin on his reddened face, his nose showing easily a future of alcoholism as he toasted his cycloptic benefactor.

Zexx let out a bark of a laugh as he lifted his own bottle and took a short pull, a hard grimace following as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.  “Shame yer friends, didn’t want to play any more.  Though probably better for me to lose to one of you than all of you.”

A few drunken nods joined an oily grin as Darby wiped his own mouth with his own palm.  “Aye, but thems lookin fer tail more’an drink an games.”

“And they plan to find it here?”

“Right?”  Darby laughed and leaned forward into the table, his head bowing forward as a soft jangle of metal could be heard as he guffawed.

“Oy there, what’s that then?”  Zexx asked as he tilted his head looking to his gaming partner.

“Eh?  Oh this thang, pretty lil bauble I picked up recent,” Darby nodded as he sat back up drunkenly and reached inside his shirt to produce the silver anchor talisman.

Peering across the table with a whistle, Zexx held out an expectant hand.  “Fine piece of jewelry there mate, mind if I take a closer look?”

A hard tug pulled the leather thong from around Darby’s thick neck as he swayed drunkenly across the table to lay it in Zexx’s hand who nodded softly as he lifted it to look at.  “Simple make, but damn fine.  Where ya happen upon it?”

Darby leaned back in his chair and kicked his bare feet up on the table, to wiggle his toes with a sigh as he rested the bottle on his belly.  “Tha thing?  Reason why ahm alrigh on tail myself.  Some ‘hore had it an I ask where she got it says somethin bout an uncle or something.”

Hoarse snorted as he shook his head while taking a swig.  “Yer uncle?  Ya righ ya filthy bitch.  So I confiscated it up righ.  Brough me hell o luck out on the blue.  An tonigh!”  

The sailor waved to the moderate pile of gold he’d picked up from his companions and the one eyed man across from him.  Zexx nodded softly as he held the pendant still in his palm, he’d never been much for arcane work but he knew enough to know this was more than a bauble.  This said sages all over.  

“Sounds like quite the girl,” Zexx murmured as he set the anchor between them.

Darby nodded with a laugh, “Oh yeah sweet as o bee hive, feisty as one too!”  The sailor leaned forward with a dark, drunken grin that held a lot more information about what happened between him and the girl than he was saying.  His free hand reached forward to pick up the bauble again.  “Ah tell ya, she had thighs tha dra-”

Darby’s words were cut short as a strong hand grabbed him by the wrist and pinned that hand to the table.  Shock sobered him up for a brief moment as he followed the hand up and into the face of a no longer smiling Zexx.  Shadows framed the one eyed man as he pinned Hoarse’s hand, as a dark anger radiated from the man.  Darby never even had a chance to shout as Zexx’s free hand grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed it swiftly into the old birch table with a crunch of a nose and snap of a jaw.  The same hand grabbed hold of the stunned sailor and lifted the head to smash again into the table for good measure, a spray of blood and teeth following this hard slam.  With a grunt Zexx pulled the head up and tossed the sailor back into his chair which amazingly kept standing as Darby flopped back loosely with a ruined face and blank stare.

Zexx peered behind his shoulder and around the immediate area for a moment, the chorus of the bar still a low din as this was not quite an uncommon occurrence around this place.  Spitting in the direction of the sailor, the swordsman would sweep up the bauble before swiftly moving to Darby’s side of the table.  Keeping a quick on the bar and for sight of Hoarse’s friends, a moan sounding behind him as the stun was starting to wear off on the man.  Turning about swiftly to plant his fist between the eyes of the sailor before ripping a bandana from around Darby’s neck and ‘knapsacking’ it for the coin on the table.

A final clink of coin and swift pull of the ends finished the ‘golden lunch’ Zexx had prepared with a snort and grim smile.  So far so good, Zexx though as he lifted the money and gave a final look to Darby.  A new soft moan given to signal just a bit of sadism on the hero-for-hire’s part, a swift jab delivered to the broken nose for good measure.  A wet smush and moan as Darby finally fell out of his chair with a clatter.

“Wha tha fuck?”  His blue eye widened as Zexx looked up from his unconscious quarry and turned to find Darby’s five mates who had been at the bar glaring at him.  Their hands were holding bottles, a couple of girls, and a lot of fists.

“Shit.”

Now...

Zexx coughed hard and spit, struggling up to his hands and knees from his prompt exit of the bar.  Rolling over onto his rear he sat a moment to catch his breath, tasting quite a bit of blood in his mouth again as he spit to the side again and stared back the way he came from the Walrus.  

Inside was a madhouse of fighting, blood, and a thundering shot followed as someone had finally drawn a pistol into the air to either find some order or put down a brawler.  Zexx guessed it the latter.

Breathing heavily and painfully, the swordsman would struggle to get up and scramble away down the dock his old boots thumping on the wooden dock.  His left hand squeezing tighter again about the anchor in his palm, happy for keeping it and the luck it was sending his way.  The loss of coin wasn’t in the plan but sometimes you gotta buy an exit.

Zexx stopped for a moment and leaned on one the dock posts as he tried to ease the ache in his ribs from breathing and even moving.  The big sailor had packed quite a punch or six and definitely finding his way through a window was not the most comfortable way to vacate the premises.  As his pain slowly eased thunder resounded the docks and the post he’d leaned on exploded in a shower of wood and muck causing him to stumble away in a panic.  Flipping about he’d easily find the bloody and angry culprits to be three of the five mates of Darby’s, one with a smoking pistol in hand.  The second man lifted his own pistol now to pull the trigger for the loud Kul Tiran salt shooter to blow past Zexx’s ear.  A quick check found the ear still there as he turned to run again, the loud thumps of feet and curses following him as he booked it past the moored ships.

As much as Zexx wanted to just run it was very obvious from his previous beating and wounds there was no way he would outrun them.  Fight or die was taking precedence over flight now as he rounded to down a dock, seeing a head of him quite a few rows bobbing in the black water.  Could he row?  A thunderous shot ringing about with a swish of a bullet was a clear indicator that he could definitely row.  Reaching one of the boats, his booted foot kicking the knot hard to loosen it before pulling it off the tie off, which followed the rope as a bullet tore it from the dock and sent it spinning into the water.

“Crap in a hat,” Zexx muttered as he readied to leap into the boat.  Thankfully he had some help in getting in the row as thick muscled arms grabbed him behind and tackled him forward into the boat below.  The swordsman made a perfect landing pad for her his pursuer as the boat dipped into the drink and sped away from the dock further out into the harbor.

There was some muffled threat and yell Zexx heard as he painfully breathed and tried to steady his rocking brain with the rowboat drifting too and fro.  More pain flooded his body as a punch struck him in the back and another in the kidney before he struggled to right himself away from the sailor.  A quick twist on his back and an elbow caught a defensive arm of the attacker and let Zexx follow with a roll to his back to face the sailor.

Darby’s mate was already clamoring up to his feet with a well experienced ease of fighting on the sea, his feet loosely planted as he let his body roll with the pitch of the waves.  Fists raised to taunt and egg Zexx on to stand, who replied with breathing heavily as he felt around behind him in the boat for purchase to get up.  Bloody and ragged breath flowed from the one eyed hero as he finally gripped onto something. 

“Get up ya bastard!  Get up ya fuck!  Ah’m gonna smah ever bone in ya!”  A short kick was sent into Zexx’s leg as he winced and struggled back onto the seat of the row boat.  Leaning forward a moment to catch his breath and Zexx made what might have been perceived to stand and fight.  Instead it was to level the short harpoon gun at the sailor who suddenly went white in the face before going red as the short fisherman’s spear went through his left eye and skull.

A familiar thump of dead meat rocked the rowboat again as the current took it further from the docks and into the harbor from the Walrus.  Zexx dropped the gun with a clatter of metal and fishing line before slumping back with an exhausted sigh.  His hand ached just as much as the rest of him as he lifted it up in front of his face to let the anchor uncoil before him, a new appreciation of the elements coming.  Behind that swaying talisman came a glint of something on the still form of the other man, a curious brow raising at what luck had befallen him now.

Two days later…

“Sorry again on the delay of retrieval, had to wait for Darby to arrive back in port before I could track him down.” Zexx spoke calmly in the office of Madame Kestavin sipping at a cup of herbal tea she’d been gracious enough to have for him.  Though he was a mass of bruises, bandages, and strong scent of herbal salves miraculously he was healing quite quickly and easily.  According to the medical staff he’d been seeing he was lucky to not be in traction for the rest of his life, but instead somehow a few days rest and medicine he’d be right as rain.  Lucky him.

“As for your girl’s items,” the anchor pendant was set gently down on the desk followed by another necklace of gold marked with a well sized ruby.  “I was able to retrieve the pendant but as for the gold it wasn’t in the cards.  Fortunately though, I was able to grab this and had it appraised before coming down here.  I think you’ll get roughly what you were owed for it but I’ll understand if you’d rather take it out of my reward.”

Zexx sipped at his tea again with a wry smile at the woman as he tried to cross his legs and winced loudly before putting his leg back down to sit easier.  

“Are you satisfied?”