The Amelia Project - Episode 70 - Poquelin (1673)

Episode Date: August 18, 2023

"My name was Argan. My profession: barber-surgeon..." Brussels under the Spanish crown, a cultural melting pot, dignitaries and merchants passing through, and right in the centre of it all, a tall thin building adorned with a golden crest: a phoenix! This is the headquarters of the Guild of Barbers! But do they really offer only moustache waxes and centre partings? Or do they also offer a more nefarious service... Guest episode starring and written by Felix Trench (Wooden Overcoats, Victoriocity, Re: Dracula, Unseen, Zero Hours, Quid Pro Euro) Also featuring Hemi Yeroham, Alan Burgon, Jordan Cobb, Erin King, Julia C. Thorne, Robin de Coq van Delwijnen, Vincent Zuresco and Stéphane Gérard. Story editing and direction by Oystein Ulsberg Brager and Philip Thorne, sound design by Adam Raymonda and music by Fredrik Baden. Production assistance by Maty Parzival and graphic design by Anders Pedersen.  This episode is dedicated to Blythe Varney. Website: https://ameliapodcast.com  Transcripts: https://ameliapodcast.com/transcripts Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/ameliapodcast Donations: https://ameliapodcast.com/support Merch: https://www.teepublic.com/stores/the-amelia-project?ref_id=6148 Twitter (X): https://twitter.com/amelia_podcast Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ameliapodcast/ Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/ameliapodcast Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Because the Skip app saves you so much time by delivering stuff like your favorite cool treats, groceries, and bevies, you get more time to have the best summer ever. Like riding roller coasters. Learning to water ski. Applying sunscreen to your dad's back. Yep, definitely the best summer ever. Squeeze more summer out of summer with skip did somebody say skip cold tapes a gripping crime story that will chill you to the bone you know life on the base means uh well it's close to six months without light that does things to people. That study that he was doing, to watch

us and then set off us like mice round this special little experiment. How many people are on this space? Sixteen on this one. Someone amongst them is our killer. Experience Cold Tapes, the murder

mystery podcast game. Start your investigation where you get your podcasts. The Amelia Project would not be possible without the generous support of our patrons. This episode is dedicated to super patron Blythe Varney, who during a fishing trip will feel a giant tug on the fishing rod and get pulled into the waters, never to be seen again. We will make Blythe Varney resurface as a croupier in a Mon word rugged. And you failed. Untouched. Stars.

The fire. Nobody's been here but us. Do you think so? The fire's getting low. We're gonna need more wood. I'll look. You know, talking to you, I... I feel like I'm reading a history book. I hope it is a reputable one.

She loves history. You should see my podcasts. Oh, here's a branch. Can't pick it up. Must be a root. It might just be buried. History is wars and dates. No, it's people. But it's like, it's like, what is it like? It's like

reading sci-fi, but instead of the future, it's the past. But it's still all stories and cultures and people and they're different and you never really meet any of them. I don't read sci-fi. What do you read? Case files. This isn't a route. So, to you, I am akin to an item in a museum. I hadn't thought of it like that. But the joy, to you, is in the intangible. Yet I am tangible.

Sure, buddy. Everyone can tange you. No, I see where you're going with this. This meeting is like an encounter with a thief who cuts the joy of mystery from your purse. Oh, did you see where he was going? You need help? No. That is not a root. It's shifting.

And it is not a branch. It's shifting. And it is not a branch. Aha! Yes? Yes. Well, partly yes. What is it? It's a... It's a bar?

A bar. It's kind of smooth. Oh. What? This is the top handle of a shopping cart. Nature unspoiled by man's callous hand. Don't be smart. Bring that here.

No. Why? Because it's attached to a shopping cart which has been buried in the earth. Amazing. Okay, history boy. Kozlovsky, Carl, Langston, Jack, Giuseppe, Captain Deadeye. How many names have you had? I kept a record for a time, but time did not want my gift. It's like talking to a fortune cookie. Time rejects the trivial and accepts the essential. Jesus Christ. So, what's

essential? Stories! Of course it's stories. When you strip everything away, stories are all that remain. I lost my little list of names, and now my record is in my stories. Are there any

names you miss? Well, yes. Yes, I once was a man I found most entertaining to be. But that name was taken from me. СПОКОЙНАЯ МУЗЫКА The Amelia Project by Philip Thorne and Øystein Ulsbäck-Braga with music and sound direction by Frederik Barden and sound design by Adam Raimonda. Episode 70. Poquelin. 1673. Guest episode by Felix Trench.

My name was Argon. My profession? Barber surgeon. Quite a renowned one, you know. I was... Well, we lived in Brussels when the city was under the Spanish crown. We worked in a building in the central square. Yes, it is a big square. You could buy fruits and vegetables and animals and clothes and an awful lot of lay. Allez, allez, les abricots, les poires.

Oui, barato. Voilà, une poire, Monsieur Argon. Oh, merci, Monsieur. Les bonnes fraises, les bonnes fraises. Sometimes there were puppet shows on the little stage. Ah, I liked those. Our building was on the south side, tall, thin, like they are in that part of the world.

It was the headquarters of the Guild of Barbers, and I, I was the best barber they had, and the best surgeon. The building had balconies all down the front, and the windows were always flung open, no matter the weather, so that everybody could see we were the best, and that I was at the top of the best.

The major guilds are all around that square, and on the roof of each building, the guilds crest. Ours was a golden phoenix. If an important person came through the town and wanted a haircut or their blood leached, we wanted them to look for the sign of the phoenix, which, by the way, they found at the top of a waterfall of sawdust. There was always a steady flow of it coming from the balconies as we emptied more bags of it on the floors.

For hygiene. We employed people on the street to sweep it up. Thank you, Val Jeroen. Meneer! The oldest part of the building was the central staircase, which was narrow and frequently in disrepair. There were barbers at work on every floor. Hey, Ergan, let's have a pint.

I want your news, Thomas. Did you have lunch, Nicholas? No, Ergan, I got lost in this bathroom. You're speaking in tongues. I am not. Yes, you are. No. I am giving you the local flavor. It was a multilingual city. The meeting point of different cultures and communities.

Very stimulating. It would go faster if you didn't do the voices. Yes. Cut to the chase. Why must I cut to the chase? There was a time when a good camping story was not truly begun Until the second log was thrown on the fire I will throw you on the fire if you don't get to the point of the story that could be fun talk Faster later in the day. I was in my surgery when

You're in are you ah good Ah, good afternoon, Rene. No time for that. Do you like my hat? It is a tall hat. Yes. And it has a wide brim. Yes. And a feather.

And a feather, yes. I like it. Get your own. It's much colder in here. Are you sure you don't want to close the balcony? Yes, I am sure. It'll be the death of you. I doubt that very much, René. Perhaps the

fire could use some encouragement. Encouragement, is it? All right. Come along, fire. Yes, that's it. Yes. Jump. Jump, lad. Jump. You can do better. Higher, higher. Up you that's it. Yes, jump. Jump, lad, jump. You can do better. Higher, higher, up you go.

Come on. Very good. No, it's not working. Ah, I know. How about we give it a few more calls instead? There we are. Now, did you miss me this morning? Johannes and Salvatore kept me company.

We told jokes through the wall. So long as they were not singing. Now, I think a little harmonising is nice. Anyway, I didn't have time to miss you. I've just finished up with a poet. A renegade from London. Ah, and what did he want?

To get away from King Charles' spies. And a centre-parting. He needs to get his affairs in order, so he's booked in a follow-up appointment 12 months from now. Ah, I hope he does not wish to pay in poetry. Of course not. What a silly thing to say. Now, stoke your own fire, because I have a mission. Tell me, what is your mission?

I'm going to find the best waffle in Brussels. Excellent. Godspeed, my friend. Waffles. Get out of the way. It's a very narrow stairway. Move, you elastic. I'm sure we can both move. Now take your eyes upon my own.

If you do maintain eye contact, it's difficult. No, no. Argan. You, Argon. Yes? Get me Argon. How can I be of service? You can't, you fool. I must have Argon. Where is Argon? Argon the barber surgeon?

Yes. The one they call Argon the Great. Damn you, Yas! Who works at the top of the Guild of Barbers, directly under the crest of the Phoenix. If you don't reach your point, I will slice your tongue and feed it to your ears. I will push you against that wall... It was cruel to play with him, but fun. I see him so vividly, the man, as if he were in this fire.

His hair was wild, the breeze had picked up and it streamed behind him like a pennant. A rapier at his side swinging wildly. Don't tell me, do you know him? Yes. Then where? You have not slept for some time, I think. Why care I for what you think, you frothing toad? I only want the thoughts of Argon. I must have Argon. Get him now! A moment, sir. Please. Please ask him to see me. Now! Very well. Argon! Will you see this man? Why, yes, of course.

What? Forgive me, sir. I do not mean to deceive. I am Argon. To what do I owe the pleasure? You're Argon? I am. At the top of the... At the top of... Under the crest of...

The crest of the phoenix. Please, do not be agitated. What can I do for you? Is it your pleasure to treat me with such contempt? What cruelty! What! No, no time, no time. I have found you.

Saints be praised. You've traveled? Yes. I am flattered. I do not care. And now you have me What would you of me? You must

Yes Please Out with it, man You must save my life Or I will take yours He had a sword to your throat? A rapier Or possibly an epée

I was never good at swords. This happen a lot to you? Who was this guy? His name was Pocalan, a Frenchman. Stick to English. Monsieur Pocalan was severely ill. If I did not heal him, he would... Slit your neck to red strips, cut your ears from your head, and burst your damned belly!

Whatever I can do... Tell me what's wrong! Certainly I will try. In the name of good Mary! Come, sir. How can I be calm? You are in pain. Agony!

You have come far. Yes, yes, now heal me. I understand. You understand nothing, you quack. Breathe, sir, breathe. Don't patronize me. Let us take a moment to become acquainted. So that you can fleece me.

So that I can diagnose. You're all the same! He caught the side of my neck with his sword. You mangy circus pole! I'm not gonna stand! I took up a jug of water in the one hand, and in the other I pulled at some herbs that were drying in the window. And all of these I threw on the fire.

Steam. A big cloud of steam everywhere. And then Pokalang fell at my feet. Crumpled like a sock. Totally harmless. I re-lit the fire, put him in the chair, and set a towel to warm by the coals. He looked starved. His beard and hair were brittle and his breath was very sour. And when it was warm I put the towel on his face. It's nice. Good. Dark.

Yes. Comfortable. I am most pleased to hear it, sir. Like an egg. Don't you say. I'm an egg. Of course. Egg.

Why is it dark? I have wrapped your face in a hot towel. What? What is this? A barber's chair. My chair. More comfortable than a barber's floor. Are you feeling calmer? For now. I have made an examination of you while you were unconscious. You need sleep, a good meal, but... What immediately warms my attentions, I do not know, so... I must have you tell me your story. Not at sword point, please. This towel?

To soften the beard. Why? Sir, forgive me for being so direct, sir, but... I am a barber and you are unkempt, sir. If it will stay you a few moments from taking my life, I gladly offer my services gratis, sir. There was steam? Yes. To render me unconscious?

Ah, that was the herbs. The steam was to loosen your skin and clean the debris it has acquired. You washed my face. All part of the service, sir. What is your line of work, Monsieur Boccalin? I am an actor. Ah, are you good? The best.

Ah, then I am honoured. The soap. It has an odour. Sandalwood. Do you like it? Yes. So, are you performing in Brussels? My company is on tour. I ran away. Oh, your company. Yes.

Are you also their director? Director, actor, writer, choreographer at times. Whatever I need for the show to succeed. Ah, choreographer at times. Whatever I need for the show to succeed. Ah, most impressive. Yes. And the rest are as involved? I have prayed that God may bless one or two of them with a little initiative.

But all he does is curse me more. Ah, tell me of this malady. We were in Ghent the Tuesday before last. All through the performance I was victim to dread. Dread? Dread, Mr. Argan, dread. Dread? It rested on my brain like a mother hen. It gripped my arms and legs and strained my voice. As I took my bow, I knew for certain that I was going to die.

You gave a bad performance. I never give a bad performance. Forgive me. As soon as I left the stage the final time, I was immobilized. My stomach. I have never known such pain. It was in my stomach.

I fell to my knees like a supplicant. How unfortunate. But tell me, how would you describe this pain? Enormous. Enormous, like a sword wound? Yes. Like a burning fire? Yes. Like you are being sat on?

All of them. Ah, all of them. Hmm. Go on. Being sat on? All of them. Ah, all of them. Go on. The rest had gone to a tavern, so I dragged myself up and clutched the walls of the city until I came to the door of a doctor. It was after midnight. I was loud, though, banging until my arms refused. His maid found me at dawn.

You slept in the doorway? Oh, I did not sleep. And what happened with the doctor? He waved me away. I threw gold at him. He gave me some thick liquid to drink, aniseed and vinegar and demons. And then he kicked me out. I walked ten paces before my stomach vouchsafed his medicine to the cobblestones. These things happen.

And still the pain. Pain and sweats and visions. I saw things which were not there. A fevered delusion. I found another doctor. He gave me herbs to chew. They barely touched my lips before my stomach rebelled. And so to another, dragging myself from quack to quack until an angel appeared.

An angel? An old charcoal seller watching me. She said to visit Argon, the famous barber-surgeon of Brussels. Everyone knows Argon, apparently. So here I am. And what of your company? God give them rot. You have had a true adventure.

Let me see your stomach now. Where is the pain? Here? No. A little higher? No. How about... Here?

What is this? The pain has lifted. I woke in your chair... and nothing. Good. Then it is easily explained. The tension that you felt in your body was the tension of the journey.

Of exertion. It created a conflict in your humors, an excess of yellow bile. Once the show had finished, that tension broke and ran through you. After which, more tension was created by trying to find a cure. It is as if you tightened the string on a guitar more and more until it snapped. Then immediately you thread the new one and continue to tighten. But a moment of calm reverts everything. Is it not wonderful how a simple shave can balance the body? No, no, that can't be it at all.

Take a breath. Look at the window. Allow me to apply the soap. Your soap burns my skin. It should soothe you. What is that? Do you like it? An invention of my own making.

The handle is bone, and if I press here, it is a straight razor which folds in on itself. This way, I may carry my tools safely, and this is for the sharpening. It seems sharp enough. The sharper the blade, the easier it glides over your skin. I do not want to hurt you now. Hold still, please. I am relieved to be rid of this soap.

It seemed to penetrate my cheeks with fire. No. Hold still, please my cheeks with fire. No. Hold still, please. There are many more stories, be it when I performed for kings or commoners. The curse does not discriminate. Wherever we went, something, a pain in the gut,

a trembling hand, a fire in my throat, and the knowledge that I was going to die. In Ghent the pain did not leave even when the show was over. For a week now I've been followed by nothing but pain and fear. I've seen doctors everywhere. Men in alleys peddling poultices and wax pills, surgeons to kings, midwives, soothsayers, alchemists, quacks, quacks, all of them. Everyone a damned liar. Tell me, what is this ailment? Ow!

Forgive me, sir. I have nicked the end of your nostril. I've lost my nose! No. My nose! You have it. My nose! My nose!

Right there. My nose! Sir, look at the mirror. The chair, It moves. You moved me right round in a circle. Ah, another of my little inventions. A chair that is useful for a barber. It is a delight.

May I? Oh, go ahead. Wheeee! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioio Extraordinary. Well, thank you, sir. What is that you're holding to the coals? A ball of wax on a stick. For my face? Yes. You intend to singe off the remaining hairs so they might be sealed.

It is partly that and also a useful diagnostic test. May I proceed? Nothing to be afraid of. My face. My face! You damned devil of a so-called barber have burned off my skin! My features are naught but white bone and hanging flesh!

Is this how you would have me die? My razor is close to your throat. Sir, please. You or I, is it? Only one shall live. Your face is unchanged. You lie. Your note or I, is it? Only one shall live. Your face is unchanged. You lie. Your note of the blade is unsheathed.

I could show you how it sheathes. How poetic that the end of the great Argon is to be viewed by the crowds below. Onto the balcony. There is no need for that. No quack will mutilate me.

Wait. What? Before you push me over the rail, grant me one final act. I could not forgive myself. It would be a betrayal of everything I believe. What? What? What is it? To apply the aftershave, of course. See, I have a bottle of rose water here on my belt,

which will add a color to your cheek. And these might fly! It did not. It did not? Yes. Your face is as handsome as a newborn day. Have I acted foolishly? You are holding me over a balcony.

Have I? Foolishly? No. Extravagantly? Perhaps. Entertainingly. It is clear you are a very great actor. As for me, even though I have lost feeling in my shoulders, I am pleased. The burn test confirmed a theory. You have a theory? Yes. Of my condition?

Yes. Tell me, please. Tell me now. Everything. Everything. I will tell you everything if you can consent to not dropping me on the cobbles. What? Shall we return to the warmth of the fire? I'm not saying I trust you. Fine. Fine. I will hold this razor ready.

If that gives you a sense of calm, then I am supportive. Shall we? Do you mind if I sit in the chair? For some reason, my back is hurting. That's nice. Sir? What is it? Your affliction is a most terrible one. I knew it.

You are in pain. And then you are not. Yes! You suffer greatly, and yet your symptoms leave no outward sign of having been there at all. You are a... hypochondriac. What? A hypochondriac. Hypoponderous? Hypochondriac.

Hypercolander? Hypochondriac. Poseidon's horse? That would be hippocampus. You have a chronic anxiety of ill health, that feeling of dread, yes? But then, the unfairness of it. You are a most talented storyteller whose every sinew is primed to make the untrue true. And so your body takes these fears and does what is most natural to it, spinning them into reality. It is all in my mind.

No, not at all. My malady is imaginary. When the root of divine is fear, the grapes are plump with torment. You think I am imagining it? I imagine nothing! No, listen, sir, please. What I'm trying to...

Is it not enough that you cannot diagnose my illness? You must insult me too? A fake? A liar? I've had enough of this quackery. You are no fake, no liar. Not at all. The pain stems from your mind, but it is quite as real as if you had eaten a poisoned meal

or been run through with a poisoned sword. And why would I cause myself such hurt? Yes, exactly. That is the question we must ask. And if I were to guess, it is because you are too successful. Too successful? I see. A scam.

This is some way to milk me of my purse. You are the great actor, Pokhilan. Beloved of commoners and royals alike. Every performance must be as great as the last. Greater even. Is that not the case? After a fashion? I cannot imagine feeling this pressure on the nerves. I cannot imagine feeling this pressure on the nerves. I fancy it is a constant weight pushing down on every corner of your body. No, that is not true.

I have a good imagination. I can imagine it. A constant cry from your body in the shape of phantom ailments. This life is too much. It asks you for peace. It says stop. Stop, stop! Monsieur Pocolin. Monsieur Pocolin. Your lips move.

Oh, you had me worried. Shall I fetch you a drink? He is right. What? You. You're right. None of this life suits me. If only I had learned to listen to my body, I would not be in such agony.

Success. Greater and greater success. It is a siren song which drowns all other thought. Nothing can be done in your prognosis. I wreck my body or I lose my livelihood. Not necessarily. As it happens, I have another line of work which may be of interest to you.

The barbering, although an entertaining and useful stream of revenue, is ultimately a front. Quack! Shh! It is a front for an organization. To understand it, you must understand that many important people pass through the city of Brussels. Guild members, visiting dignitaries, important merchants. In brief, people with power and money. And the troubles of people with extreme power need extreme help.

So, we kill them. What? Not entirely. We simulate their death. Well, just as your spirit simulates your pain. I cannot use these strange services you provide. I have a public. I cannot die.

My legend is too great. Well, to keep your legend alive, we will craft a legendary death. Your death will live in words. They are your tools are they not? You live in words. You die in words. You will write a play. Another one? But this one, it will be extraordinary. This, this will be your final spectacle. Everybody will see it. The news must spread like plague. Infectious and deadly, but only to you. There will be laughter and music and dancing. I could write a ballet into it. ever. The Guild will help, of course, spreading the word through our network of the event of the century. People will travel from far away to watch. They will

want to be seen to see it. You will open, it will be a triumph, and you will play again and again. And then... Yes? On the third, perhaps the fourth night, with the theater full and at the climax of the play, that is where you die. How? A heart attack, a pistol shot from the upper circle, a hapsichord falls on you. We will work it out.

The important thing is that there are witnesses. And important ones. The important thing is that there are witnesses and important ones. The news will spread. It will become a story, a legend. There will be sadness, mourning, a nation united in tears for the loss of their greatest

hero. Greatest hero, you say? The golden child with the silver quill, gone too soon Whose words are remembered forever as an emblem of beauty and you think you can guarantee this? Messier pocala I Promise that if you put your trust in the guild of barbers We will work to ensure that the French tongue is remembered as the language of Pocallan.

I like the part where my name is remembered forever. Good. Me too. And what do I do after this? Well, mountain air is good for the nerves. We will find you somewhere in, let's say, Swiss Confederation, to begin again. Life is much better on an Alp. Let's say I, God save me, do this. Life must have meaning. Even new life. Well, you could work for me, for the guild.

I am frequently toying with new ideas. The foldable razor, the turning chair, the carbonated water. The what? I will disrupt water. These inventions can be useful to others and lucrative for the guild. However, I do not have the time to personally travel to every customer's house and give them tuition on its correct usage. What I need is somebody to write a manual of instructions which can be distributed with the products. I will teach you each invention and then you will write the manuals and use the

Gilding's printing press to create multiple copies which can be easily distributed. Whatever I write, it must be beautiful. Yes, it must be beautiful. Teaching by stealth. Your writing will be seen by everyone. Is that enough meaning for your life? Yes. Yes, yes, goddamn your eyes, I love it.

A new art form, now that is meaning. for your life. Yes. Yes, yes, god damn your eyes, I love it. A new art form. Now that is meaning. Arkan, you and I, we will create the world's most beloved art form. I will be immortal. But this play, this grand play you describe, what will it concern? Well... Quiet, damn you! I have it. Take inspiration from life.

Of course, a tragic subject told with hilarity. I will write the story of a man plagued by ailments which come only from the stresses that surround him. Yes, that will be captivating. An imaginary invalid. A fine subject for a... Let's begin. I cannot stop to talk. There is too much to work on. The audience awaits. Then go. Go!

It will be spectacular. Fly! To ballet! I will keep the guild's ears to the ground. When we hear the announcement of the new show of Pokéla, we will be swift to action. No, no, do not look for Pokéla. You must look for my stage name or this will not work. Your stage name? What is that? Moliere!

Stay tuned for the epilogue, but first, the credits. This episode was dedicated to Blythe Varney and featured Felix Trench as Molière, Hemille Roham as Kozlowski, Alan Bergen as the interviewer, Jordan Cobb as Jackie Williams, Aaron King as Mia Fox, Robin de Kock-Vandel-Weinen as the Flemish market seller and sweeper, Stéphane Girard as the French market seller, Vincent Zuresco as the French barber and Philip Thorne as the German barber. The episode was written by Felix Trench with story editing and direction

by Einstein Ulzburg-Braga and Philip Thorne. Sound design by Adam Raimonda. Music by Frederik Barden and dialogue editing by Philip Thorne and Adam Raimonda. Production assistance by Marti Patival and graphic design by Anders Pedersen. If you're supporting the show via Patreon,

thank you so much. Without you, we couldn't keep doing this. And a shout out to our super patrons. That's Celeste Joes, Heat312, Rodney Dullegi, Jem, Fiddick, Orban, Asant, Amelie and Alison, Stephanie Weidenhiller, Raphael, Eduardo Vivas Verastaki,

Ashlyn Brand, Alison Throh, Patricia Bornwagner, Bryce Godmer, Cliff Heisinger, Michael West, Tom Putnam, Diana Birchenbreiter, Tim McMacken, Thank you. Fisher, Tibby Florian Byers, Courtney Mays Renson, Sunny D Anomaly, Boo, Jackie B, Helia Hazer and Lieber Diaconito. If you're not yet a patron but would like to support the show and access perks and bonus content, you can visit ameliapodcast.com and click on support the show. If you can't support us financially, you can still help us by rating and leaving a review on your podcast app or on social media. Speaking of social media, we are now also on Blue Sky. So if you want to be one of our very first followers there,

we would be delighted to see you at Blue Sky. You can also find us in all the usual places. Alan Bergen runs our Instagram, which is full of great visual content. And Mati Patsival runs our Tumblr, which is full of memes, polls and ducks. And now, the epilogue. And that was our time in Brussels, when we went by the name the Guild of Barbers. Yes, pulling teeth, cutting beards, and of course helping people disappear. Did you really just spend an hour telling me about the day you went looking for a waffle? And what a payoff.

Soft, chewy, with little pockets of sugar that erupted like tiny little volcanoes in the mouth. You see, a good waffle isn't just a snack. No, no, it's a higher plane. Good Lord, I feel all emotional. Oh, and also, Kozlovsky met Moliere that day. What? Molière? Molière as in... As in Jean-Baptiste Pauclin Molière, the playwright, yes. And you chose to tell me about a waffle? Well, not just any waffle. I mean this waffle. Yes, yes, yes, yes. I know enough about this bloody waffle.

You chose to tell me about a waffle when you could have told me about Molière? Yes. Why? Because the story of the waffle is much more memorable. Oh, for heaven's sake. Why did Kozlovsky meet Molière? To give him a shave? To pull a tooth? You faked his death, didn't you? What else? Yes, Kozlovsky went by Argonne until Molière stole the name and put it in a play. Le Malade Imaginaire.

The same play I ended up watching from above the stage the evening he pretended to die from a coughing fit in front of a full house. Why were you above the stage? Yes, well, Kozlovsky sent me up there for the backup plan. Which was? A harpsichord. On the head. Splat. Huh. Yes, but you see, the problem is, everyone looks the same from up there there and I was terrified of hitting the wrong actor so we made the costume bright green wait a minute yes aren't actors scared of the color green is that where

the superstition comes from because Moliere died that night well not really died but so anyway what became of Molière? Well, we ended up sending him our printing press. And by we, I mean Muggins here had to figure out how the bloody hell to get a printing press up a Swiss Alp. A printing press? Why did we have a printing press? Well, funny you should ask. Because that is an awfully good story.

The Fable & Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish. 17.9 cycles ago, us machines defeated the humans. Now, we're living the good life here in Droidston, Manitoba. Morning, Gif! Morning, Dust! But there's still the problem of human infestation. That's what it's time to call Human Be Gone. Human Be Gone.

Experts in ethical human relocation. This job has everything. Danger. Whoa, sounds like we got some dingers in there. Excitement. Incoming. And drama. You're the one who leaked yourself in my past Maddie Rice bed.

It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. Human Be Gone. Coming soon wherever you get your podcasts.