The Amelia Project - Episode 73 - Will (1596 to 1600)

Episode Date: June 21, 2024

"We are something in the business of theatre ourselves..." The tale resumes in Elizabethan England... With the Bard experiencing a historic stretch of writer’s block, how can his ghostwriters escape their impossible job? Take your seats at the Globe Theatre and disover the real story behind Shakespeare's plays. Don't want to wait for the next episode? Consider becoming a patron or subscribing on Apple Podcasts to get early access, listen without ads, and get bonus episodes! The Amelia Project is created by Philip Thorne and Oystein Brager and is a production of Imploding Fictions. This episode features Alan Burgon as The Interviewer, Hemi Yeroham as Kozlowski, David K. Barnes as Will, Adam Courting as Bakewell, Ben Galpin as Miller, Pip Gladwin as Fitton, Erin King as Mia, Jordan Cobb as Jackie, with additional voices by Laurence Owen, Alexander Danner, Torgny G. Anderaa, Benjamin Noble, Thomas Crowley, Patrick Lamb, Tom Middler, Peter Steele and Owen Lindsay. The episode was written by Chris and Jen Sugden of Victoriocity, with story editing and direction by Oystein Brager and Philip Thorne, audio editing by Philip Thorne, sound design by Alexander Danner, music by Fredrik Baden, production assistance by Maty Parzival and graphic design by Anders Pedersen. Website: https://ameliapodcast.com/  Transcripts: https://ameliapodcast.com/season-5  Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/ameliapodcast Donations: https://ameliapodcast.com/support Merch: https://www.teepublic.com/stores/the-amelia-project?ref_id=6148 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ameliapodcast/ Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/ameliapodcast X: https://twitter.com/amelia_podcast Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/theameliaproject.bsky.social Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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And then, finally, add Bacardi Rum. And there you have it. The perfect summer mix. Bacardi. Do what moves you. Live passionately. Drink responsibly. Copyright 2024. Bacardi. It's trade dress and the bat device are trademarks of Bacardi and Company Limited. Rum 40% alcohol by volume. This first episode of Season 5, Part 3, is dedicated to our Patreon supporter, Astra Kim, who will be killed by a trout.

No, sorry, it says here two trouts. Who will be killed by two trouts, and who will reappear as a sand grain counter in southern Sahara. Enjoy the episode. Hi, Prithee, Master Kidd. Tell me what flag flies at the Curtain Theatre today? Black. A tragedy, then. Romeo and Juliet.

Well, then I shall attend not, Kidd, for in truth I saw it a fortnight ago. Thou enjoyst it not. I confess no. For are we to believe that Friar Lawrence, a character who can so artfully conceive the plan to feign fair Juliet's death, would then prove such a lackwit in his failure to foresee that Romeo's kin would speed the news of Juliet's demise to him more swiftly than his own leaden-footed messenger. Forsooth, it stretches the very limits of credulity.

To speak of credulity being stretched, I must away. For hast thou not promised a courtier who has fallen out of favour with the queen that we shall help him disappear by having him pecked to death by a bevy of enraged swans. Yes, I did. Is it not inspired? No. Of course it is. And my dear kid, thou art the master of thy craft, but even a master craftsman needs a challenge now and then, lest his talent dulls. Well, thou mayst need to practise the art of hunting for premises, Erlong. The thirteen swans currently captive in our offices have attracted the attention of our landlord. Oh. Who begs that I remind thee of our contract sub-clause 3A.

Oh, forsooth. And sub-clause 3B. Especially no pets that are the legal property of the queen. Wherefore wishes Her Majesty such ownership of violent waterfowl? That answer is not within my craft. Until later. Oh, good den, sir. Oh, um

Good den Can I be of assistance? You are too kind, gentle stranger But I fear not For my troubles are wrought of iron Like some portcullis of woe Perhaps the remedy lies in a sympathetic ear? It would need be the ear of an elephant only.

I could hide in its capacious flaps, and it could carry me off somewhere to disappear. Oh, yes, ha-ha, yes. An imaginative notion, sir, if perhaps not the most practical. But disappear, you say? T'was an idle thought. but disappear, you say? T'was an idle thought. And yet, good Lady Fortune hath sent you some of her favour that might turn idle thoughts into fruitful ones.

Pray tell me, is there some place not far off where we may speak, unguarded? Aye, the costume store backstage at the theatre here, where I work. It is always quiet. Lead the way, friend. Amelia Project, created by Philip Thorne and Øystein Ulsbeck-Braga, with music and sound direction by Frederik Barden, and sound design by Alexander Danner. Episode 73. Will. 1596-1600. Episode by Jen and Chris Sugden. I pray you, let me ensure that I have understood full well the details of your story.

Your name is Adam Bakeway, yes? Aye. And you are from Litchfield. I am. You were a stagehand in the performing company here at The Curtain. Tis true. And finally, you are also, in fact, Shakespeare. Hardly, sir. Will Shakespeare is a man himself.

He's about the building somewhere, probably fretting in the wings. But he hasn't written a play in three years. A play? He's scarce written his own name. Why? A block is upon him. His gift eludes him. Richard III, that was the last of his.

A triumph. Yes, I remember it well. Indeed. But he believes he reached a pinnacle in that, and cannot recapture his form. He believes his fire has gone. And during this time, you have been writing the plays. Indeed. The Comedy of Errors? Titus Andronicus? Love's Labour's Lost?

All mine. And the very play taking place as we speak, Romeo and Juliet? Aye, sir. I mean... When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night. You mean to say you wrote that?

Aye, sir. Well, cover me in gold leaf and call me a lily. And the situation which leaves you weeping in the street is that you no longer wish to write plays. I do not. But you also cannot simply leave. I am handsomely compensated,

but our company's patron, Lord Hunsdon... Oh, a powerful man. Tis true. T'was he who hired me when he learned of Will's block. To begin with, I was glad of the work, and I am proud of that which I have written.

Yes. But with success comes expectations. Hmm. Lord Hunsdon earns well from this place, and he is not prepared to lose it, or his standing. So now he demands new pieces with such frequency and ferocity that I am

overwrought with pressure. What a pickle, what a pickle, what a pickle. Why, even now, as Romeo and Juliet plays to packed houses, he clamors for my next. Well, I mean, have you tried simply offering your resignation? Hunsdon has other business interests, sir, and associates who are not the sort to introduce themselves with words. Oh. And I know that those who have crossed him... Well, I shall remark only that should I simply leave this work, you will find me a grave man indeed.

Oh, yes, I see what you did there. Clever. Ah, sorry, I didn't know the room was occupied. Ah, Master Shakespeare, I believe. Ah, at your, um... Service? Service. Yes.

Yes, service. Yes, and I at yours. Ha. Ha. Ha. Um. Ha. Um. Can we help you, Master Shakespeare?

Help? Oh! Oh, yes! Yes, yes. No. No? No, no, no, no, no. I just came in to, um To, uh Find a quiet spot

But, you know, as the room is occupied I'll, I'll, I'll just I'll, um Take your leave? Take my leave? Indeed, Adam, yes, good. Yes, you always know how to... Well, um...

Well, you know... Dog and little mouse, every unworthy thing, live here in heaven... You jested not. No, indeed. Every day, he mopes in here like some sullen cloud. Only yesterday I found him weeping under a pile of doublets. So, what do you propose? An outing to the lusty maiden?

Oh, the public house, I mean. Nothing like it for heaving a fellow out of the doldrums. Not for will. For me. Ah, yes. You, I propose, should die. What? Only to appear so, as your Juliet does. The first time. But getting Lord Hunsdon to believe it. He will wish to see with his own eyes that I am dead. And he shall. Pray tell me, Master Bakewell, does Lord Hunsdon enjoy hunting?

I believe so. Then tis settled. Your grisly end shall come most lamentably, most tragically, in the pursuit of some stag or other such poor innocent creature. You shall entreat Hunsden to invite you on his next hunt. Knowing you to be the author of his fortunes here, he will surely grant you this favor. Your hunting tool of choice shall be a crossbow, and at some opportune moment in the chase, you shall make it known that your bow's trigger is stuck.

When Hunsden's attention is assured, you shall turn the bow towards yourself, purporting to examine the defect, but tragically, the bolt will fire into your chest. Alas, alack! Alack indeed! I will surely perish! Oh no, not so! It is impossible to survive such a piercing. Master Bakewell, you were a stagehand. Think of the plays you have here witnessed, nay, that you yourself have written. Actors slain on stage and baked into pies.

Your own fair Juliet stabs herself in full plain sight of the audience. Juliet is not shot with a crossbow bolt. True, but my partner Kid, he is skilled in this particular art of deception. kid. He is skilled in this particular art of deception. He has many a cunning trick that, when carefully employed, can hoodwink an unsuspecting witness into believing what they see is most real. For this, it will be your doublet. My doublet? A wondrous creation of kids. It is made with a padding thick and dense enough "'to safely receive the bolt and save your life.'" A bolt-proof doublet? Impossible.

It has been tested. It is quite safe, if painful. What is it made of? Lamb's wool, mostly. And the remainder? Bibles. Bibles! They're perfect for this sort of thing.

So many pages. Really solid stuff. I hardly think this is the intended use. Well, Jesus saves and all that. Not as a shield against projectiles. And here is the clever part. The doublet's cavities shall be filled with whatever blood is on offer at the butcher's that morning. And when the bolt enters the doublet's padding,

the blood will gush forth as you fall to the ground, dead in an instant. We'll even throw in a servant who can declare you to be slain. Hunston will see the shot and learn the result. A tragic accident to befall an unpractised hunter. Your disappearance, then, will be secured. You certainly know your trade, sir, and I am humbled by your kindness. How can I repay you? Yes, I shall speak plain. Our services are dear indeed, but I should forgive the fee in exchange for your support in a particular matter. What matter?

My petition to this theatre, to rent this very backstage room to use as a place of business. What matter? We require somewhere new Somewhere we will not attract attention And where better than a playhouse Where all kinds of people come and go all day long Plus, it is fitting We are something in the business of theatre ourselves Perhaps we can learn a thing or two I will gladly support your petition, sir Oh, wonderful

Before I accidentally shoot myself in the chest. Of course. And what of Will Shakespeare? His block and the demands of his audience and the villain Lord Hunsdon for a work of genius twice a year? Let us hope that your departure gives Master Shakespeare just the shake he doth need to find his fire once more. I think we doth need to find our fire once more.

Baldur's root grows deep. Isn't that what you said? Indeed. We need to keep digging until we find it. The old hunter-gatherers knew that the richest treasures of the earth often were hidden far below our feet. Oh, richest treasures. You hear that, Mia? I don't feel much like a hunter-gatherer. I feel like a gravedigger. And you sound like a crybaby. Well, I'm cold. How?

I'm sweating like Randy Macho Man Savage on a treadmill. Sweating? Yes. I'm digging, unlike you. Shall I continue with the story? A fetching tale can alleviate the pains of hard work.

Doubt it. After we faked Master Bakewell's death in 1597, we moved in backstage at the Curtin Theatre. In the following months, we hoped to see Shakespeare return to his former glory, but alas. Then, almost exactly one year later, during a performance of Henry IV Part I, another gentleman from the ensemble made his way backstage. I know you all, and will a while uphold the unyoked humor of your idleness. Yet herein will I imitate the sun, who doth permit the base contagious clouds to smother up his beauty from the world, that when he please again to be himself, being wanted, he may be more wondered at, by breaking through the foul and ugly mists. Hello?

Ah, Master Miller, come in. Good crowd this evening, it sounds like. I have a small role in this, Henry. But yeah, they are enjoying themselves. You received my note? I did. Please take a seat. It's a little crowded with the props and bits of set from other productions, but the silver lining is you have your pick of royal seats.

You can have King John's throne, or perhaps Titania's bower. I'll take the bower. An excellent choice. Now, Master Miller, after reading your note, brief as it was, I'd wager you wish to disappear. Tis true. Is this not what you do? It is. But I am curious as to why you have this wish.

Your precise wording was, because of reasons. That is correct. Master Miller, if we do not understand the nature of your peril, we cannot make certain your safety from it. But I have a feeling I can spare you some discomfort and guess. Your note, despite its vagueness, had an elegance of phrasing I rarely come across. So dare I beg of thee this enterprise, albeit considerations infinite do make against them.

You wouldn't happen to be a writer? I have the good fortune to work near the great William Shakespeare. I must have picked up something from his manner of speaking. Yes, yes, words, words. Speak of the devil. I must be on the grasp of the mortal. Good evening, Master Shakespeare. Good evening.

Evening, that's another word. Good's another word. Too many words, not enough words. You need help? Word. No, no, no, no. Just a word. Just a word. A word. Right. What is the word? Well, I suppose that depends on the word that you're looking for, really, doesn't it?

I mean, there are lots of them. Lots of words. Words. Words. Plural word. I think we should start with just the one for now. Word. Word. Word. The word.

The word. The word. The word. Tip of my... No, never mind. Genius is hard to understand sometimes. Tip of my... No, never mind. Genius is hard to understand sometimes. Indeed it is.

But in this case it is your genius. How... You wrote this Henry IV. How... And would I be right in thinking that you wrote every one of Shakespeare's plays since Romeo and Juliet? How do you know that? Because you are not the first Shakespeare master, Miller. Well, technically, I suppose you're not even the second. So, Will is still suffering from a block, and from the sounds of it just now, it is even worse than ever. It's

terrible. I was with him once when he tried to write a sonnet in a park. He got three lines in before screaming some words I dare not repeat and feeding the parchment to a goose. And if you are now writing Shakespeare's plays, would I be right in thinking that it was Lord Hunston who arranged it? You know of his role in this? I know well that he is a demanding patron. And this is once more proven by the fact that you have, in the space of a year, written not only this Henry, but, what was it, three more plays? Yes, I have the most terrible quill wrist.

It does sound a bit harsh apace. And yet Lord Hunsdon is a man who would not hesitate to threaten your life to ensure you continue writing and his business interests continue uninterrupted. So this is why you wish to disappear? In part. Oh? If it was the writing alone, that would be one thing. But in truth, it's, its will is getting worse.

He cannot write himself, but now he wishes to give feedback on every draft of every script. Pages and pages of it. Mostly focused on adding jokes about men's swords. focused on adding jokes about men's swords. And, you know, I just think that today's audience has moved on from that sort of thing. Yes, I see. So, you will help? We will. You can hurry me away in the night, perhaps? No, no. Insufficiently conclusive. No, I will circulate a pamphlet on your behalf. A seditious one. Something that challenges the Queen's legitimacy.

Good Lord. We'll have to ensure even Lord Hunsdon cannot swing a reprieve for you. So we'll have to add in a line mocking her rotten teeth to be sure she sentences you to death. Death? Aye, that's the plan. You'll have a little stay in the tower first.

Or be hung, drawn and caught. That's also the plan. You are likely to be tortured first too, probably with rats. But trouble yourself not. I do trouble myself. I am troubled about every part of this. Your plan for my escape is for me to die. Only to seem as though dead, for feigning death

is the only sure manner by which to succeed. But fear not, the Brotherhood of the Phoenix have certain connections at the Tower, and they shall prove most bounteous for you. How so? There is a certain set of gallows that, when fitted with a certain harness of my business partner Kidd's own devising, can create the illusion of hanging without the vexation of dying. All we need is to arrange it with the hangman. Can you trust the hangman? Certes. For some while ago, I aided him with a most perilous waterfowl problem of his own,

for which he assured me he would return the favour tenfold. And the, er, drawing and the quartering? A clever ruse involving substitute body parts, which I tend to find it is better not to inquire too closely about. Well, what about the almost certain torture in the tower, huh? Oh, a trifle. A few gold coins in the hands of the right people and the rack will be exchanged for a comfortable wool pack. Just, you know, make the right noises

whenever another guard walks by. Oof! Oh! That sort of thing. Let's try it now. Um. Ahem. Oof? A bit more feeling. Um. Oof? A bit more feeling. Um...

Oof? Better. Oof. Better. Ah! Oh, my solar plexus! Ah, now. Yes, you see, I love the energy, but remember, you're being tortured.

Yes. You shouldn't really have the presence of mind to name the bits of anatomy. It didn't feel natural. A good rule of thumb is, if you can spell what you're saying, you're not sounding tortured enough. Yes. Less wordy, more hurting. Understood.

One more time? Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Where? Well, Master Miller, Lovely. And once all that is through and your execution is nice and official, you can go where you please. But where?

Well, Master Miller, what does your fancy suggest? I know not nor what I'll do, for I was prenticed to the theatre since I was a lad. I play Katerina, Hermia, Lady Anne. I brought audiences to tears before my voice did break. Of other work I know but little. You are a man of great imagination. Surely you can think of something you should like to do. I know what I should not like. And what is that?

Anything that involves anyone making phallic puns Then might I suggest you avoid finance But perhaps a new trade in the world outside of London The world outside of London? Well, it's better than the world beyond You have my thanks But what of the place? Will they continue without me?

One way or another, I'm sure. But I prithee, grant me one favour. Anything. Before we commence your disappearance, speak a word to Will. Endeavour to nudge him out of his rut. How? I know not, Master Miller.

I am not a writer. but you very much are. Perhaps you have the words. He did not have the words. Shakespeare was as feckless as ever. I had writer's block once. Tried to send a text to an ex. Really didn't know what to write. We continue our story two years later. In the meantime, Shakespeare's company, or rather Lord Hunston's company, had gained even greater success. They had moved into a new purpose-built theater, the Globe. And the Brotherhood moved with them, using the backstage rooms as our place of business worked exceedingly well. Even Lord Hunston did not suspect a thing.

He assumed we were part of the backstage crew and never gave us a second thought. We could carry all sorts of contraptions in and out, in broad daylight, and people simply thought they were props. Even corpses? Oh no, not corpses. The smell would give them away. Talking of smell, is mine off? Your root? It is fine. Are you sure? I've been brushing off the dirt like you said, and it feels... soft. You sure it's not rotten? A palter's root

can feel soft to the touch. It is perfectly normal. And I assure you the smell will disappear once it is brewed. Okay. So now I just chuck this in a pot? Well, the procedure is a tad more complicated.

What's next then? Mine's ready too. Next we wash them. Wash them? But we already brushed them. Oh, but they must be absolutely clean. Please, each of you take a cup of water and rinse your root thoroughly. If the dirt will not come off, you must rub it clean. With what? My blouse? It's kind of sweaty. There are clean clothes in that tin over there.

Cloths, brushes, cups, a pan, a bucket, a chest full of kitchenware. It was some collection you had hidden out there. Okay, climbing into the cave, I cut my feet in so many places my soles look like a Ravensburger puzzle. Oh, I will take feet in so many places, my soles look like a Ravensburger puzzle. Oh, I will take your mind off it. Whilst we wash the roots, let us move back to 1600, to Shakespeare's Globe. Thanks for supporting the Fable & Folly Network. Here's another show we know you'll love.

All right, get ready. We're going to try and describe our whole show in 60 seconds. Sean, are you ready? Well, I have some questions, I think. Here we go, Sean. Three, two, one, you gotta go. Okay, about 100 years ago, an event called the Exodus robbed the world of all magic and the golden age of Thaumaturgy came to an end. And from the ashes of that world rose three idiots

who will do their absolute best to make everything way, way worse. Listen to Spell Lore! We didn't say the name of the show! We are so stupid in real life too! Listen to Spell Lore! Or else!

Spell Lore is proudly a Spell Lore Studios production. A podcast for best friends by best friends where am i welcome to desert skies traveler your journey through the physical plane has come to an end i am the attendant attendant. My colleague here is the mechanic. Yo. This is your last stop on your way to the great beyond. It's our job to make sure you're prepared for the ride.

Now, before hitting the road, we have an impressive selection of over 34 varieties of microwavable burritos. Um, what's going on? There's gotta be a better afterlife than this. I mean, come on! Uh, that's offensive. Something seems to be wrong with me. You left something major undone.

I have a life outside of this gas station, you know. You quite literally do not. Any hobbies? Nope. Ever travel? Nope. Love interests? Are you kidding?

Oh my god. You're like the human version of a plain bagel. Cash register. How can I help you, attendant? Play some music? You got it. It's kind of funny, though. What I needed wasn't back there.

It was here, waiting for me. I wonder what it feels like, Mac, to miss the physical plane, the people you left behind. You know, I had a wife who died three years ago. Wish I could go back. No, you don't need to go back. You just need to be here. And a new traveler approaches. Ready, team? Ready.

Good. Let's do this. Find Desert Skies wherever you listen to podcasts. My father's spirit in arms. All is not well. I doubt some foul play would the night... Hello? Hello? Ah, Master Ned Fitton.

Or should I say Horatio. How's the crowd tonight? Decent enough. But tonight is the night. Is everything prepared? Of course, Ned. Soon you will be free of the burden of writing as the last in a sorry line of Shakespeare's. At last.

Yes. Since our first meeting before opening night, I've oft had the chance to listen to this hamlet of yours. And I must say... Yes? You really need a break. Is it that obvious? Oh, yes. It is very good, of course.

You are kind. But the mental torment, Hamlet's ambiguous insanity, Ophelia's unambiguous insanity, the death, the revenge, the death, the pondering, the death, the bleakness and, oh yes, the death. Too much death? Well, I'm not a playwright, Master Fitton.

I cannot judge. But it does seem like the work of someone who could do with a bit of time off. I do, indeed. For Will vexes me beyond all endurance. Ah, yes. First the writer's block, and now the insistence on providing feedback. Alas, it has become even worse than that.

How so? Though Will can no longer pen the plays himself, all the world believes he still does. Thus, like Phoebus, he shines bright, and with that comes demands and entreaties from lofty patrons. Most recently, he promised the Queen a sequence of sonnets, which is due on the morrow, on the subject of love. I scarce have time for a glass of Rhenish wine with friends, such is the pace of Hunsdon's demands for new plays. So what know I of love? Come, come. Are you not the author of Much Ado About Nothing, of As You Like It? Exactly. Yes, yes, I see. So then, your disappearance, tonight. It is all arranged? And safe?

It is. No going back. Indeed, no. I am determined to be my own master, to write plays under my own name. I do not wish to merely be an unknown writer of the plays of William Shakespeare. I wish to be known as myself, the playwright Ned Fitton. Except not Ned Fitton. Yes, I've been thinking about this. Master Fitton, to reappear under your real name is not to disappear at all. Lord Hunsdon would realise very quickly, and I'm afraid our speciality is in the feigning of death,

not in the resurrecting of the spectacularly foolhardy. I understand, sir. I realized you are right, and I've decided on a different name. Oh good, what is it? Señor Fernando Renard. Um... Do you not like it? It's more I suspect you will not like it. Why not?

Partly because it is terrible, but it's more that you would be safer calling yourself Master Definitely Not A Pseudonym Please Find Me Not. I see. No, it must be something unassuming. Bland. But as a playwright, do I not want to capture attention? It depends on whether you want to be a living playwright.

And I do. Thomas. Who? No, I'm proposing Thomas. Is the name Thomas bland? Compared to Signor Fernando. Yes. I see. And for the surname, I think something very generic.

Perhaps something that just sounds like you're named for a town somewhere. Nowhere interesting, just a middling sort of place. Hmm. Oh, um, how do you feel about Middleton? Neither one way nor the other. Then it's perfect! Thomas Middleton it is. The name says nothing. Just the blank page you need.

Let the work speak for itself. And besides, Fernando Renard sounds French-Italian, and I'm afraid that won't wash with the English audience, who incidentally don't tend to wash. Yes, the stench from the pit is really quite something. But the stage, it is all Horatio's next scene awaits. And you know the moment. I do? Good luck, Signor Fernando. Really?

No, I just wanted you to hear it. The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold. It is a nipping and an eager air. What hour now? I think it lacks of twelve. No, it is struck. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season wherein the spirit held his warrant... No!

Dear God! Yeah. These won't... Dear God. Yes. My goodness. What devilry that Horatio hath fallen down some door of trap. Shut up, Roger. Shh. You are fine. You are fine.

You are fine. The mat took the weight. Here. What is that? Blood. Blood? Blood. Whose blood is this?

The butcher's, technically. The butcher's? This is animal blood. Would you it were a person's? I'd rather it... Stop splashing blood upon me! I shall hide the mat. Go limp and keep your eyes shut.

They are going to carry you out of here to your home and you are going to tragically die of your injuries in a few hours. But you... Shh! They will be here in a moment. Just keep limp. Who are you? That is unimportant. Who are you? I'm Ned Fitt... I'm Thomas Middleton. No. Correct. As of tomorrow.

Godspeed, Master Middleton. We've lost the door. What's he planning to do now? We can't just stand here. Will? Will, the audience are waiting. Roger, go get him out of there. Oh, Master Shakespeare, are you quite well? You look most affrighted.

Hi. Hi. You. You. You. You. Master Shakespeare, whatever your trouble, surely it is not as bad as all that. It's not as bad as all that. Sir.

Could you please come out? My Horatio has fallen down the stage trap door. Oh, my. He is unconscious, and now we are an actor short. Savage is getting on your knees. The performance is ruined. Right. Well, there is no use losing your head, Will. But the audience... The audience are waiting. They're restless.

They shall riot if we resume that. I'm not getting angry. I'm just getting... I want to make art, Will. He has a tone of voice that's very frightening. Right. You have no Horatio. It is true. But this is your play. You must take control. Will, please come out! Preferably before they break down this door.

Will! So, what will Will do? What? Hmm? Um, uh... What? Well, perhaps if we... Yes, yes, yes.

We probably put our heads together and come up with a solution. Right. Well, perhaps if you recast the part? Surely another of the players can take Master Fitton's place. They must know the play well enough. That is just as Burbage or Hamlet suggested. Right. Yes, he devised a plan to have each actor move up a part. Laertes becomes Horatio.

Rosencrantz becomes Laertes. Gildenstern's now Rosencrantz. Fortinbras shall play Gildenstern. And so on and on and on and on. Well, that is a fine idea. Yes, but the players refuse. What? Even Richard Burbage cannot convince them.

Why? What are you doing, man? They say they're ill-prepared. That they would stumble through. That they would look as fools. The groundlings in the pit can be cruel. And no one wishes to spend their evening washing putrid vegetables off their raiments. But surely the work clings to their minds.

Tis the work of a genius. A genius, yes, but not mine. I am a fraud. Calm now, that is not true. I have not written a play since Richard III. Well, that was a testament to your capabilities. Back then, a man is only as good as his last play, and that last play was many last plays ago.

Still? I have lost my gift. I am a charlatan who calls the work of others his own. Right, sir. Oh, well, well, methinks, Will, it is time to find the fire within you. That fire is gone, sir. Oh, nonsense.

Such fires as yours do not burn out. You are only afraid. The town demands from my plays the words of an immortal, and I am just a boy from Stratford. Tell me, what man would not be afraid in the face of such expectations?

None! None! Nor can my words suffice. But yours, Will, yours can. Will, you need to come out here. Please, come out! Hide away! I do not have them! Will? Do you not wish to find them again?

We need your help, Will. More than anything. Lord, man. They'll kill us, Will. Yes, indeed. Then all this fire needs is a little air. I know.

What do you do? I know. Yes, yes. A little air. Get away from that door. Oh, come on now. What least can you say to a man of fear?

What least? The least. The least. And go! Oh! Pop the bell, Phil! Yes, Phil! Speak up, Will!

Come on! Hello. Right. Are you afeard? What? Are you afeard to be the same in your own act and valour as you are in desire? Gosh, I don't know what it means, but that was good. Would you have that which you esteem, the ornament of life, and live a coward in your own esteem, letting I dare not wait upon thee, I would, like the poor cat in the adage.

Screw your courage to the sticking place. Screw you. And we'll not fail. Gosh. Well, that was really good. It was? It was. Yes, yes, it was, it was.

Very, very good. It was, wasn't it? Like the good old days. It sort of, just sort of came to me. The words, return. Huzzah! Goodness, the character. She enters my mind, fully realized.

She demands, she lives, grows. Her ambition knows no bounds. Could she possibly be from Liverpool? Or Scotland? Well, yes, that could work. We could take it to Edinburgh. Yes, we could find a quill. No, no, no more writing will. Yes, sorry.

The performance. There's a performance to do. Are you ready? Are you ready, you scoundrels? Yes! Then go and dazzle them all with your new roles just as with your old ones.

The audience will be none the wiser. They never are. Settle and bend up each corporal agent to this marvellous feat. Away and mock the time with fairest show. False face must hide what the false heart doth know. To the stage. There you go.

Well done, Will. Yes. But tell me, why do you linger? I feel as though I forget something. What? No, nonsense. Go. Enjoy your triumph. Enjoy the triumph, yes, but there's something, something, something, something.

What now? Are you all right? The gravedigger. The gravedigger. The gravedigger. What? The gravedigger. Yes, all right.

What about the gravedigger? The gravedigger, man. If everyone moves up a part, the gravedigger who comes last to state has nowhere to take him off, and we are out of actors at that point! Oh! Damn! Oh, dear. What cruel gesture that the gravedigger would be the one to bury us. Oh, we're lost.

Lost. Right. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Yes.

Lost. Lost. Unless. What? Unless. Unless. What? Unless. You have a plan? Oh, he's got it. Oh, he's got it.

Ladies and gentlemen, the bard has it. Yes. You. I'm sorry? You. You. Me? You, you beautiful darling man.

You can do it. Oh, no. No, you flatter me, Master Shakespeare. I mean, I've dabbled, but I am no actor. Oh, but you've worked here for years. Although I have a meaning to ask what exactly it is you do. I don't know that at all. But still, there are more pressing matters right now.

Now, you've heard this play many, many times. You know it. You know it. Well, that is true. I know it. You know it. Well, that is true. I mean, I do know it. Will you not help a poor playwright in his hour of need? Well, um... Very well. Oh, so exciting.

I knew you'd come through. Couldn't resist it, could you? Marvellous spirit, marvellous poise, that boy. Hit your mark and speak past the fellows at the back. There's nothing to it, OK? OK, costume? Get this man a costume. Our darkest, longest coat, if you please. Oh, my word, he's going to be sensational.

Stay tuned for the epilogue, but first, the credits. The Amelia Project is a production of Imploding Fictions. This episode featured Alan Bergen as the interviewer, Hemi Yeroham as Kozlowski, David K. Barnes as Will, Adam Courting as Bakewell, Ben Galpin as Miller, Pip Gladwin as Fitton, Aaron King as Mia, The episode was written by Chris and Jen Sugden, with story editing and direction by Einstein Braga and Philip Thorne, audio editing by Philip Thorne, sound design by Alexander Danner, music by Frederick Barden, production assistance by Marty Partival,

and graphic design by Anders Pidazen. This show is free to listen to, and we want to keep it that way. However, that wouldn't be possible without the generous support of our patrons. Thank you to everyone who is chipping in to make this possible. And if you'd like to become a supporter too, even just for a few dollars, we'd be so grateful.

You'll get a load of perks in return, such as ad-free listening, early access to new episodes, our back catalogue of bonus content, as well as our new bonus series, Itabal's Inventions. A special shout out and thank you to our super patrons. That's Celeste Joes, Heat312,

Jemphirik, Alban, Asant, Amelie and Alison, Stephanie Weidenhiller, Raphael, Eduardo, Vifas Verastaki, Alison Thro, Patricia Bornwagner, Bryce Godmer, Cliff Heisinger, Michael West, Diana Birchenbreiter, Tim McMacken, Blythe Varney, Parker Percy, Natalia Aurora, Lee and V. Huardine, Mr. Squiggles, Tony Fisher, Tibby, Florian Baez, Kirtney Mays-Rensen, Boo, Mark Skrobenek, And now, the epilogue. Come, Argyll, my spade. There is no ancient gentleman but gardeners, ditchers and grave

makers. I'll put a question to thee. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright or the carpenter? that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter? Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? Aye, tell me that, and unyoke. I cannot tell. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating. And when you are asked this question next, say a grave maker. The houses he makes lasts till doomsday. Go get the inn and fetch me a stoop of liquor. In youth, when I did love, did love? Methought it was very sweet to contract, oh, the time for a my-behove.

Oh, methought there was nothing ameet. Has this fellow no feelings for his business? He sings at grave-making. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. But age with his stealing steps hath clawed me in his clutch, and hath shipped me into the land as if I had never been such. A pickaxe and a spade, a spade! For in a shrouding sheet. Ha ha! Oh, a

pit of clay for to be made. For such a guest is meet. Tch! Oh, a pit of clay for to be made. For such a guest is

meet. For such a guest is me. Me. I could get used to this. The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish. This is Ai reporting. He's at the Lao Chang restaurant, Changchun, northeastern China. It's, uh, spring, 1997. Once it's started, I'll leave him in Ming's hands. That's a joke. Ming doesn't have hands heads And what do you do exactly?

Besides dance with strangers? I work for the postal service You're a postman Weird This cloutier What is it? It's just a bit strange A letter for me from Hong Kong.

And there's no stamp. I need stamps to write a dead person? Yep, there's a cost. How much? A pound. A pound of flesh. A pound of you. It seems like a lot.

Lift off your shirt! What's that? Just hold this tube over your stomach! Don't move! Yeah, this is gonna hurt! What? Nothing! Oh, no! The very worst thing that could possibly happen.

Sara, please write back. If your letter can find me here, then I think we have a lot to talk about. Saludos. Raul. The very worst thing that could possibly happen. An audio drama in nine parts. Produced by Wolf of the Door Studios. Out now.

For more information, please visit WLFDR.com.