The Most Wanted Men
“You know, I once shared a bottle of absinthe with a Serbian arms dealer who swore The Blacklist was just a clever front for actual intelligence leaks. He was mostly wrong — but charmingly so.”
Welcome to The Most Wanted Men, a podcast devoted to peeling back the layers of intrigue, betrayal, and designer coats that make The Blacklist such a guilty pleasure. Join our hosts — two very opinionated amateurs with nothing better to do — as they explore the cases, conspiracies, and quirks of Raymond “Red” Reddington’s criminal concierge service of doom.
We’re not here to recap. No, no. We’re here to obsess, to question, to rant lovingly about overlooked plot points and the sheer audacity of a man who disappears into a monastery one week and drops acid in the Louvre the next.
Spoilers? Constant.
Accuracy? Occasional.
Charm? Relentless.
So pour a glass of something expensive, burn your aliases, and press play.
You’re on the list now.
The Most Wanted Men
The Stewmaker (No.161) S1E4
Send an Encrypted Message to the Men
Ah, Episode 4 — “The Stewmaker.” Now there’s a name that brings back the aromatic sting of chemical solvents and poor decisions.
Let me tell you about this man. A chemist by training, an artist by pathology — The Stewmaker is not your run-of-the-mill cleaner. He doesn’t just dispose of bodies, he erases them. Dissolves them into nothing. No teeth, no fingerprints, no trace. A perfect ghost maker. He keeps a scrapbook, you know. Photos of every victim, as if they were cherished pets or well-aged wines. It’s enough to make even the most jaded cartel enforcer lose his lunch.
And wouldn’t you know it, Agent Keen finds herself face-to-face with this monstrous curator after a routine investigation goes sideways — or perhaps perfectly to plan, depending on your vantage point. Now, you know me, I’m not one to let someone I mildly tolerate become acid soup in a motel bathtub. So I did what any reasonable fugitive with a moral code and a global weapons cache would do: I orchestrated a rescue. Violins, explosions, the usual symphony.
In the end, Lizzy learns that sometimes justice doesn’t wear a badge — sometimes it wears a bespoke suit, sips fine whiskey, and drops a man headfirst into his own vat of destiny. And me? I get another name crossed off the list. One monster down, a few hundred to go.