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The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
We are pleased to announce that Bilton and Scaggs’ musical adaptation of “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch” will have its world premiere at the Alma Gideon Theatre this spring! See the writeup in The End Times, endtimesreview.com/niceandaccuratemusical, and follow #niceandaccuratemusical for more updates!#niceandaccuratemusical
😲👍❤️ Terry Neil and 213 others
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OMG Y’ALL HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEWS
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End Times Review @endtimesreview
A new adaptation of a beloved YA novel is set to premiere this year! Rumor has it Broadway is not far off.
#niceandaccuratemusical
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# chatbox
Kella ()
I cannot believe that Bilton and Scaggs are resurrecting my childhood like this.
Tay ()
That was my favorite book!
Prince ()
I can’t believe they’re getting a musical before they get a movie
Kella ()
Don’t even say that, there was a leak of a screenplay draft a while back and it was atrocious. They literally made Ashtoreth and Francis straight.
Tay ()
Who do you think they’ll cast?
Crowley was tired. A toxic equation of hangover plus long, lonely drive across multiple time zones equaled one exhausted Crowley, who wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep until the second coming.
It should have been possible. The company manager had informed him that the rest of the cast wasn’t in yet, with only one exception, another English expat named Ezra Fell (funny, that almost sounded like- but no, it couldn't be) who had come in earlier that day. Crowley was welcome to knock and introduce himself (not bloody likely), but the planned meet and greet wouldn’t take place until more people had arrived.
“I’ll walk everyone over to the Armageddon on the first day so you don’t get lost,” she had explained, and then upon seeing Crowley’s confusion added, “The Alma Gideon, I mean. We call it Armageddon. You’ll get used to it. It’s a nice place to work, really.”
Crowley had nodded mechanically, taken the folder of important information and the keys for his little corner of the block of flats rented by the company, and promptly fallen face-first onto the bed.
He had a few days before rehearsals started, at least. A few days not to think about exactly how much was riding on this (not that his agent was going to let him forget). A few days not to imagine the myriad ways he could fuck this up.
He restlessly turned on to his side and stared at the smooth expanse of undecorated white wall. The flat was furnished with necessities, but it was obviously not a home, too blank and minimalist. No one lived here. It was only temporary lodgings.
He rolled onto his back. The view of the ceiling was not an improvement.
After a few minutes of staring until his eyes went dry, Crowley decided that he was not going to fall asleep any time soon, and forced himself to stand up and wander over to the kitchen to see if he could scrounge up something to eat. There were menus in the folder for places that delivered, but he didn’t want to interact with another human being if he could help it.
Was it his imagination, or did his footsteps echo?
He fumbled for his mobile and pressed play on his Queen playlist, turning up the volume. With any luck it would drown out his thoughts. There was a box of pasta and a pot in one of the unnaturally clean cabinets. He fished them out.
He was definitely going crazy. Now he thought he could hear strains of classical music. Was that… Vivaldi?
He thumbed the volume all the way up on Queen and turned his attention back to the pasta. A sudden thump on the wall made him jump, sloshing half the water out of the pot and onto the hardwood floor.
Bloody brilliant, he thought despondently. His first gig in who knows how long, and they put him up in a haunted apartment. Maybe the company manager would let him switch, if he told her what was going on.
Or maybe she would think he was mad. Or maybe the whole building was haunted.
The thudding came from the door, this time. Crowley winced.
On the one hand, it could be completely innocent. Ezra from next door, or the company manager back with another folder.
On the other hand, why would a ghost be knocking?
Get a grip, he instructed himself, and went to answer the door. He was tired and strung out and stressed, but that was no reason to panic.
He opened the door.
“So sorry to bother you,” said a posh voice that sounded rather bothered itself, “but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind turning down your music.”
Crowley’s mouth fell open.
“Aziraphale?”
# chatbox
Goblin King ()
I’d take Benedict Cumberbatch as Ashtoreth. He could totally pull off a witch-hunting vampire.
Kella ()
YOU CANNOT JUST PUT BANDERSNATCH CUCUMBER IN EVERY SINGLE FANCAST YOU MAKE, GOB
Goblin King ()
I know, I am trash, rip
Tay ()
Yeah, obviously it should be Tom Hiddleston
Kella ()
TAY I STG
Kella ()
YOU ALL KNOW THERE ARE OTHER BRITISH ACTORS, RIGHT?
Prince ()
There are????
Tay ()
#shooketh
Kella ()
I’m going to join a new server with no Americans in it, watch me.
Crowley’s fall from grace had been a double somersault. First, the arc of his rising star was abruptly arrested when Morningstar Players shut its doors upon the revelation that the founder was a sexual predator and an embezzler to boot. Then Crowley’s best friend (well, sure, he never actually said so, mostly they just had sex, but they had an arrangement, didn’t they?) refused to stand up for him to the British press. He had sauntered across the pond and into California, sure he would make it in movies instead, only to end up gradually destroying the last remnants of his career over the last ten years without anything more to show for it than a couple of spots on CSI and SVU.
This was his last chance. And standing in front of him, looking as frustratingly angelic and golden and fucking handsome as ever, was the very last person he wanted to see. The person who had watched him fall, and done nothing at all.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale blinked rapidly, as if it would cause the vision in front of him to vanish. Crowley couldn’t blame him. “Oh. Oh dear.”
There was a moment of horrible, yawning silence—really a cacophony of Queen and Vivaldi, but it felt like a very loud silence—and then Aziraphale promptly turned on his heel and fled.
Well. That was a thing.
Crowley wondered if anyone had helpfully furnished alcohol somewhere in the kitchen. He badly needed a drink.