Everything Is Nice

Beating the nice nice nice thing to death (with fluffy pillows)

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All I Need For Christmas

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Written by Martin

26 December 2014 at 09:46

Posted in music

Tagged with

The Threepenny Space Opera

with 3 comments

One

Peachum, the black surgeon, was massaging a heart. Bored, he turned to his wife: “Where’s that lump of sensuality?”
“Polly’s out courting. He’s a very nice man; a Captain, you know. Ever so well turned out, he wears gloves like a Vicky. He’s got this awful scar on his neck though. Well, I suppose he is a war hero.”
At his table, gloved in gore, Peachum ground his molars silently. A scar on his neck, eh?

Several floors below, deep inside the asteroid New London, his daughter was in the process of marrying this scarred captain. Polly was wearing white, of course, and MacHeath was wearing his dress uniform, medals agleam. It was the happiest day of her life. Pirouetting, Polly broke into song:

And Pirate Jenny was dancing for pennies,
The knucklebones tossed in a spin.

A man came running up. Polly tried to think of him as one of the groom’s guests, rather than one of his henchmen. “Boss,” he panted, “the sheriff’s coming.”
“Of course he’s coming, you cretin. I invited him.” And with these words Major Brown appeared, resplendent in the full regalia of the office of High Sheriff.
“Ah, Jackie, it’s been awhile,” exclaimed MacHeath.
They had both seen service on Rakshasha; Brown in the Fleet Aerospace Arm whereas MacHeath had found his true vocation on the ground as a special forces officer. The skills and ideas this had furnished him with had placed a considerable burden on their relationship of late but Brown still found himself inextricably bonded to the man.

“I see you’re married.” With his stained apron and thick forearms, Peachum he looked like a butcher.
Polly held up her hand. “Like my ring?”
His arms uncoiled and, grasping her hand tightly, he appraised the ring. “Aye, it’s very nice. I expect the Duchess of Devonshire thought so too, before it was forcibly removed from her possession. Along with her finger. Well, it does my heart glad to see you married to an amoral sneakthief and prolific rapist. MacHeath is the impacted faeces in the bowels of this fair city-state.”
Polly looked like she had been slapped. “How can you say that?”
Silently Peachum extracted a business card:

“The world is poor, and man’s a shit
And that is all there is to it.”

“I know the fucking family motto,” she spat, stalking off.

Two

MacHeath lay in the arms of a mechanical prostitute, thinking about his father-in-law. Who would have though the old man still had so much pull?
“You shouldn’t have come here, Mac,” pouted Heidi 3000. “I’ve alerted the police to your presence.”
MacHeath sighed. She was, of course, programmed to do this. It had been probably been ill-advised to visit his favourite gynoid knocking shop but emptying his balls helped him think.
On cue a bulky figure in full contact body armour burst through the door. “Coming quietly are we, Mr MacHeath?”
In answer MacHeath unloaded his holdout pistol into the constable’s face and jumped out the window. Whilst this hurt considerably it did not aid his escape as he landed amongst a squad of equally heavily armoured police.
One of them thoughtfully placed an enormous Gauss rifle against his temple. “You’re nicked, sunshine.”

Three

The British were a civilised empire – not for them the laser guillotine. No, MacHeath would be fired out of a cannon into the sun. Brown stood to attention; his dress uniform had seen a lot of use this week. Mac might have been an utter cunt but he had served the empire well. And, in the end, wasn’t that what mattered?

As the air boiled in his lungs and blood leaked from his ears, MacHeath’s life flashed before his eyes. He developed a fierce erection. Before he could start to enjoy himself, he was suddenly displaced from the void. As he hacked and thrashed his way back to life, he became dimly aware of a woman standing over him. If she was human, she certainly wasn’t British but MacHeath had always prided himself on a racial liberalism when it came to attractive females.
“Drugs?” she asked, proffering a steaming bowl.
“Who are you?” MacHeath managed as the fumes hit his veins.
“My name is Rasz-Arguhl Bumpsetta Heraldo Aptimel d’. You can call me Bumpsie. I come from a utopian post-scarcity society in need of a bastard.”
MacHeath spat blood on to the floor. “I’m your man.”

Peachum stared out the porthole at nothingness. He hated bloody deus ex machinas.

Apologies to Gay, Brecht and everyone else.

Written by Martin

16 December 2014 at 08:53

Posted in Uncategorized