This fic should be read aloud and in your thickest Danish accent. Enjoy!
“I sought vee might have ourselves a movie night, Vill,” said a semi-smiling Hannibal, as he warmed his hands by the crackling fireplace. “After all, ve’ve made such progress, vhy limit ourselves to the dwudgery of all verk and no play? Perhaps a pleasant evening at home… I’m not in the mood to cook tonight, besides, I have leftovers vee can heat up after da movie. What do you say, Vill? How would you like to see a movie in my vell appointed scweening woom?”
Will’s brow furrowed and his face took on that “how much sicker is this going to get?” look that he found himself wearing just about every time Hannibal suggested they try something new.
Hannibal touched Will on the shoulder. “Now, now, Vill. I promise it will not be torture. I was sinking of something light, like…Ewaserhead, or maybe Blue Welvet?”
Looking like he was being forced to eat his own head, Will said, “I would have pegged you as a profound Swedish art flick buff, Hannibal.” Of course, the idea of having to sit through Bergman with Hannibal Lecter made Will want to stab himself in the nostril.
“Me? Svedish? Bah. You know I love my comedy.”
Will raised both eyebrows on that one. “Strange, but I never really think of you as a funny guy, Dr. Lecter.”
Hannibal, wearing a cadmium red and royal blue plaid suit, adjusted his powder blue and lilac paisley ascot, flipped a stray piece of sandy-silver hair away from his face with the back of his hand, and spoke with a gravely concerned and slightly vain tone.
“I suppose I do come across as stern, possibly even aloof at times. Perhaps I need to verk on zis aspect of my social demeanor.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Will.
“But zhere is another side to old Hannibal Lecter that only my very closest fwiends get to see.”
Hannibal shivered violently, smiled like a clown, screamed, “BLUT!” at the top of his lungs, laughed hysterically, then resumed his ice-king stance.
Will smiled the forced smile of, “You’ve got be kidding.”
“You doubt me, Vill. Zis is disappointing.” Then, in one second, his demeanor changed. He perked up, grabbed Will’s hand and whispered excitedly, “Come! Let’s go to the scweening woom. I have just ze film for our movie date.”
Will looked down at Hannibal’s hand; his curiosity was piqued. Not so much by the idea of taking in a flick with Han-Han, but because suddenly, the psychopath he’d come to find interesting enough to let live was acting like a high school girl on a date.
Hannibal directed his friend to the center seat of his private theatre, where he asked Will if he would prefer popcorn or Raisinets with his 64 oz. Diet Coke. Surprised, but not altogether displeased by Hannibal’s drastic change in character, Will expressed that he’d like popcorn, please.
“Over my dead body, Vill. Vee will be ingesting no such sing. I was joking. See, zis is me being funny. You get the joke now, yes?”
Will removed his glasses and massaged the space between his eyeballs, realizing this was going to be a long night of many such outstanding jokes.
Hannibal stood straight up and frowned. “I made us a platter of ventricles-on-a-stick. Made from ze hearts of pigmy albino walruses. Very rare. Zay will go nicely with the spleen a la mode – you’ll never be able to tell it’s spleen! The way I prepare it, Vill, you’d swear it was pancreas!”
Will dreamt of a large tub of popcorn. The quaintness, the innocence of the old snacks. Ah, dreams; the stuff that nightmares are made of. And then, Hannibal clapped his hands twice, and lo and behold, the room went pitch black.
Hannibal whispered excitedly, “Yes, ze clapper, Vill! Clap on, clap off!”
Will turned to find Hannibal gone. From above and behind him, he saw a light coming from a projection room. Hannibal waved at him. He waved back. That was odd. Just as Will stopped waving, Hannibal appeared in the seat beside him. Holding his promised platter of ventricle-on-a-stick hors d’oeuvres, he offered Will a napkin. The opening theme song began. A sad violin suggesting an ancient loneliness. Will bit his lip.
“I love zis film, Vill. It’s a wonderful light-hearted spin on de old Frahnkenschteen story.”
Will looked at the empty platter. “Wait – where did all the ventricles go?”
“Vut ventricles are you talking about, Vill?”
Confused, but all too familiar with the Lecter method, he let it go and asked once again about the movies theme. “Don’t you mean ‘Frankenstein’?”
“Yes, zat’s correct. Frahnkenschteen.”
It clicked for Will: Just shut up and don’t ask anything else.
“Yes, Hannibal,” said Will, as he noticed that Hannibal was no longer on his left side, but on his right.
“We must be quiet now. Ze movie is about to start.”
Unnerved, Will felt it best to just keep his trap shut and hoped like hell that Hannibal… stopped kicking the chair behind him???
He turned and politely, though incredulously, said, “Excuse me, can you kindly not kick the chair. I’m trying to watch the film. Thanks.”
Hannibal stood on the aisle and addressed Will. “Is zis man bozzering you, sir?” The usher, who was, of course, Hannibal, wore a pair of felt covered antlers attached to a Happy New Year headband. Will wondered when the next round of ears would be pushed down his throat.
Once again, Hannibal was reclining comfortably in his chair, on Will’s right side. He was sipping from a large paper cup. He offered Will a sip from his straw.
“I insist on total quiet during ze film, Vill,” Hannibal said, as the initial dialogue was being recited by the characters. “In fact, I would go as far as to say zat talking during ze film is so rude a sing to do, that it could anger me to no end if you should make zat mistake.”
Trying to hear what Gene Wilder was saying to Marty Feldman, Will’s face contorted in conflict. Hannibal slipped his hand on to his friend’s thigh and started to stroke.
“Khaki’s, Will? No, no…don’t say a sing.”
Will prayed for a quick death. If he thought hard enough about spontaneous internal combustion, there was always a chance he’d get lucky.
The two sat back and watched Teri Garr gawk in awe at the possibility of The Monster’s physical presence. “He must have an enormous schwarschtunka!” Comic relief for most, but for Hannibal, it was a personal cue. He got so close up into Will’s ear that Will felt Hannibal’s breath come out the other side.
“Enormous schwarschtunka, Vill! Zat’s what she said, eh? EH? EH?” He ribbed his friend in the gut. “Who is not ze funny one, now, hmmm, Vill?”
And before Will could shut his gaping mouth, Hannibal popped a red pill into it.
Hannibal, gobbling a handful of red pills himself, said, “Zeez are great, zeez pills. I got zem from our friend, Jack Crawford, who got zem from back in ze olde days ven he used to live in a little town called Zion.”
Hannibal stood up, clapped his hands and suddenly, the room was dark again. Will wished he’d worn Depends because he was about to shit himself.
Without a pause, Will and Hannibal both found themselves on an unlit stage. Hannibal winked and whispered, “Zis is my favorite scene is ze movie, Vill! Get ready!”
Hannibal clapped his hands and the two of them were suddenly awash in bright spotlight. Both were wearing top hat and tails; both carrying shiny black walking sticks.
“Cue ze music, please!” Hannibal allowed himself a moment to prep for his big number. “Here ve go, Vill.”
Hannibal began to sing and dance. “If you’re blue and you don’t know vhere to go to vhy don’t you go vhere fashion zits?”
Will looked around nervously and said, “Putting on the Ritz?”
Hannibal took a deep inhale off his nitrous tank and mask and continued, “Different types who vear a day coat, pants vis stwipes and cutaway coat, perfect fits…”
Will, prompted, sang, “Putting on the Ritz?”
Back again in their seats, they watched the end of Young Frankenstein all the way through the final credits.
“Ah, Vill. Zat was so much fun. Vee must do zis again.”
Will looked around at Hannibal’s office, wondering what had just happened.
“Vill, are you OK? I sometimes feel you are too stwessed out. Is zer somesing I can get you? Schnapps? Maybe sum vorm milk? Ovaltine?”
Will swallowed anxiously. Perhaps the resuming of his unconventional therapy was not the best idea. After all, could there be anything less therapeutic than having Hannibal Lecter saying to you with the deepest concern, “You know vut day say, Vill…laughter is ze best medicine…”