That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Act Three
Programme note: This final Act in all its parts, a joint venture with Fatmammycat. (soprano)

Every opera has its visit to the Gods and we are no exception, but don’t be afraid, these are only northern pagan ones who live on mountain tops, not the real One. Quick, there’s a funicular about to leave for the summit now, hop on, no climbing for us.

On the Cairngorm peak of Ben MacDhui, the god of long term structured maintenance agreements is sitting on a granite boulder, pondering his next move on an invisible chess board. At his shoulder, a sly black Mynah Bird is perched on a cairn, seeing all. The god has chosen for his manifestation, the full “Rob Roy” similar to one which mysteriously vaporised in front of witnesses, in an Inverness outfitters that very morning.

He feels her even as she steps from her island to his.
Leaning to have a look at the board, jewelled hand on his shoulder, her warm breath brushes his ear and bits of her press against him.

The Mynah Bird shifts its weight.

She stands defiant to the wind, decked in the garb of her own land, the waistcoat and the green, and a sash of her dancing medals that she couldn’t resist.
But as she is the goddess of seduction, ankles, and gay barmen, she’d look good in a flour sack.

“Morning Milady. Look I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“And the same, Lord Ack. Narrative thread all right? Wish I wouldn‘t do what? Is it me or is it a bit bleak round here?”

“I like it bleak. Anyway to get back to the point. Thank you for coming, I thought this far into the project an informal progress meeting might be…”

“You worry too much, it’s going fine. What’s the bird?”

“Acting secretary, I thought maybe, minutes of the meeting? No?…”

The Mynah Bird ruffles.

Ignoring the bird she walks round the summit taking in the vast white wilderness to far horizon as she continues;

“You know what it needs? More sex! Something for all the poor Joes in the cheap seats. Something warm for their vitals..”

“Yes I agree. Let me make a note…”

“A bit more raunch! A bit more blood and guts, earthy, lusty, sexy…”

She stops and looks around. In her animation she has struck the attitude of an orator of old, and now on the hilltop, hair blowing, colour in her cheeks, Lord Ack stares dumbfounded.

“What?” she asks

With a hefty swipe, he sends the Mynah Bird flying from his perch in a black flurry.

“That will be all thank you.”

As he looks at the Lady of Seduction, his sporran starts rattling in his lap.

Come friends leave them to their devilment, and take thanks that such as Kentigern and Ninian and Columba delivered us from these. Back to the house! Quick! Don’t look round!

'So then I said to him, 'listen you culchie fuck ya, don't you come the...'

Sexy Beauty checked her watch and suppressed the urge to whoop.

It was time-thankfully, for she did not know how much longer she could have withstood-the overwhelming urge to snap O'Shea's grubby wrinkly neck like the dirty old ferret he was.
Every time she leaned across to massage his shoulders his hand 'casually' slipped off the bench and somehow mysteriously managed to brush her fanny every single time. The first eight times he did this she had moved out of range, the last four she had dug her elbow so hard into his spine the old fuck had whimpered and withdrawn it himself.

'Oh Sergeant,' Sexy Beauty said a little breathlessly, 'your poor neck is in a terrible state, I really feel we need to bring out the big guns here.'
'What's that?'
'Have you ever tried acupuncture?'
'All them ould needles and shite? Nah, I don't believe in that ould nonsense.'

His hand dropped off the table and tangled hopefully with the hem of her stockings.Sexy Beauty pretended not to notice.

'Oh, I'm surprised to hear you say that. I was just saying to the commissioner that it-'
'The commissioner?'
'Oh yes, he swears by it. Says most forward thinking people are not afraid to embrace other customs.'
'Does he now?'

O'Shea was thinking the last time he'd spotted Commissioner Byrne the only thing the old fuck had been embracing was Dymphna Moran's left tit. But that had been at the Christmas Party in August, and what happened in the Garda Club stayed in the Garda Club, it was the law, the actual law. Old Commissioner Shaw had it written up back in the day after Sally Gowen had ripped his toupee clean off his old bonce during a bout of unbridled passion over the billiards table.

And when police dog Harvey had died from ingesting said item, the resulting newspaper headline
'Vicious Hair kills Dog-'
was the subject of much snickering until Shaw had retired and moved to County Clare.

'It won't hurt, I assure you, you'll feel like a new man after. The commissioner swears by it.'
'Oh yes Sergeant. The commissioner says he feels like a stallion after his session.'
'Does he, begod!'
'A rampant stallion.'
'I'll do it so! Bring on the needles!'

Sexy Beauty rolled her eyes. She slipped her hand into the front pocket of her coat and pulled out the syringe Fatmammycat had been so thoughtful to provide earlier.

'Now, Sergeant, try to relax, You'll probably feel a little prick. But I'm sure it's not the first time you've felt one of those now is it?'
'What's that?'

O Shea lifted his head, while simultaneously grabbing a mound of Sexy Beauty's arse.
With more force than was necessary, Sexy slammed the syringe with a vengeance into the Sergeant's flabby buttock.

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