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 Act 7 Scene 6: The Devil Taught me the Tritone.

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PostSubject: Act 7 Scene 6: The Devil Taught me the Tritone.   Sat Nov 24, 2018 2:27 pm

John, Steve, Crew and Stookie Bill are at the Master mixing desk of the 4d Intervision screen.

Steve: How did you get rid of that other bloke?

John: I just told him Abrasax sent me.

Steve: What’s Absrasax?

John: A just a little club that secretly rules the world. My membership is many years lapsed but he wasn’t to know that. Lucky for me that they haven’t changed their shibboleth, but I suppose that’s the point of a shibboleth, they aren’t supposed to change.

Steve: What’s a shibboleth?

John: It’s a system of mutual recognition. It’s a Hebrew word meaning ‘ear of grain’ but it was a word that the ancient Israelite tribe of Gileadites used after a battle with the Ephraimites to test who was who because the Ephraimites could not correctly pronounce the sh sound.  So anyone who could not pronounce the word correctly was clearly of the enemy and was killed.

John takes Stookie Bill from Crew. Let’s get this show started. He looks over Stookie Bill and tries to find something which might serve as a way to connect to the control desk, then he spots it. Well I never, so you weren’t lying. Fancy that, Logie Baird must have had quite a sense of humour.

Stookie Bill: I told you I had needs.  

John: Well this ought to satisfy them.

With that he plugs Stookie Bill into the input jack.

Suddenly the holograms of dead popstars disappear and a single form slowly condenses from the mist of Bose-Einstein plasma condensate. A swirl of smoke appears from the ghostly cigarette the man is holding.

Bill Hicks: My name is Bill Hicks and I’m dead now. You’ve probably never heard of me. I was big in the 90’s, then I died. I died from a pancreatic cancer because I made a joke about Barbara Bush’s old flacid vagina hanging down between her legs like an elephant’s ear and described Rush Limbaugh eating turds fresh out her ass. That’s all I did man, I mean…if you can’t take a joke. Powerful people don’t like you talking about them like that. I discovered. So she put a hit out on me and paid some private sector witches big bucks to curse me with cancer in an occult ceremony, she was also Aleister Crowley’s daughter, again I didn’t know that at the time, so maybe I stuck my dick a little too close to the fire. Still it was a pretty funny gag, worth dying for. He draws on his cigarette.

Anyway, enough about me and my claim to fame, I want to introduce you to some friends of mine. But these are real rock stars. Pop stars don’t have ginger hair, who the hell let the gingers into the Rock’n’roll club? Seeing Ed Sheeran the mewling ginger rock antichrist of the New World Order makes me glad to be dead. And here’s another clue Rock Stars don’t have freckles either and they don’t write songs for women. Real rock n roll stars write songs for people, admittedly sometimes those people have to be on drugs to understand what the hell the singer is talking about. Real rock stars don’t act like ball-less inoffensive eunuchs that your grandma likes, it’s about the music, the riff, the attitude, the power of your dick. Does Ed Sheeran have a dick? No he doesn’t, he has a ginger micropenis. True story. He smokes his cigarette.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of God through the bars on the gate of heaven and I see a look in his eyes and you just know that he’s about to give up on planet Earth and let the chaos forces of widening entropy swallow you all, unless he hears a catchy riff he can rock out to. God just wants to sit back and enjoy his creation, but you have given him nothing to enjoy anymore, whenever he hears Ed Sheeran he feels like creating a small but catastrophic nuclear misunderstanding.  I’ll be on my way, maybe see you around one day, in this world or the next, if you make it that far. Bill Hicks forms swirls back into vapour along with his smoking cigarette and disappears.

The is chatter and apparent confusion among the audience and some laughter.

Sir Nob Dogbeard: Well, I can’t say I disagree with the Ed Sheeran bit, the weird little gob-shite. There are cheers from the audience.

Sir Nob Dogbeard dials a number on his mobile phone. He goes backstage to take the call.

Sir Nob: speaking on the phone I don’t know what’s going on. We’ve got focken Bill Hicks on the Intervision stage saying weird stuff about Barbara Bush’s pussy. She'll raise focken hell if she finds out about this shite. Eh? The cont's dead you say? Well, I dunno I don’t focken keep up with these people’s obituaries. But we didn’t programme Bill Hicks, I don’t know what the fock is going on. Shall I shut it down?

There is stillness from the within the Intervision screen for a moment before the Bose Einstein condensate, condenses again to form another ghostly human shape.

The shape appears to be moving and dancing before it is even fully formed but the dance moves are indisputably those of Michael Jackson. There are cheers and screams of delight from the audience at the sight of Michael Jackson.

From somewhere not of this world comes the sound of Michael Jackson’s hit Black or White. Jackson does the dance moves, sings and makes the appropriate weird Michael Jackson pop-stars noises at various times in his routine. There are wild cheers and more screams and frenzied whooping. The music fades back to the ghostly interzone between the living and the dead.

Sir Nob Dogbeard: still backstage speaking on the phone backstage Who’s on now? It’s Michael Jackson. Yeah, of course the audience are loving it, it’s Michael Jackson, yeah, but we didn’t programme him in, I don’t know what he’s fockin' doing there. So you want me to leave it for now? Alright. You’re the boss, boss.

Michael Jackson: Addressing the audience Hello again Earth. I am back for one more final show, then I must leave you forever and go back to where I came from. I came from a very dark and lonely place and I want to tell you something so that you won’t have to go there too because something very bad is happening right now that you don’t know about.

But I have to tell you something, I have to tell you the truth. I am not a hero, I am not an object of your worship. I worked hard, I was a good dancer, probably one of the best and wrote music because it was all I ever knew. But I did some bad things, some of those things you know about. I ruined many people’s lives. I ask myself why I did this? Because I could. I could do anything I wanted. And now I am paying the price. This is my last chance to repent my sins and do something genuinely good for the world for once in my life instead of just parading my ego and telling everyone I was doing something good for the world. 

If I wanted to do something good for the world I would have told the truth about everything. But I couldn’t, I daren’t. None of us can, because we are all part of it. Part of the evil which has invaded the world, but we are just puppets, our lives are orchestrated and prearranged like a dance routine, and if you try to dance to a dance to your own tunes, they cut your strings. When you get to the point that everything is arranged and done for you, then you can no longer do anything for yourself. And if you oppose them in anything, no matter how small, those that served and worked for you turn on you. Like my doctor.

Sir Nob Dogbeard: What the fock is he on about? He takes out his phone and dials again It’s focking Michael Jackson, he’s gone off script, talking about evil invading the world and all that focking’ shite. I knew all this holographic bollocks was a focking waste of time. Shall I pull the plug and just activate the focking laser now? No? Why not? What do you mean it won’t make any difference what he says? The laser will take care of everything eh? Maybe you’re focking right. I hope you people know what you’re doing 'cos I focken don't anymore.

The condensate inside the intervision screen swirls and undulates with something like the presence of a vast living organism. Vague forms appear in the smoky white clouds which become more defined and resemble human forms, only for them to fade and vanish once again. Several such manifestations take place, and some of the forms are recognizable and well known, and manifest, although vaguely for  a few seconds before disappearing once again back into their unknown realm of origin.

The clouds swirl and writhe, billowing and coalescing, then music is heard. The sound of an electric guitar, many people in the audience recognize the distinctive sound as being that of a Fender Stratocaster, a white one. The heavily distorted notes of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance, also known as Land of Hope and Glory, played in honour of his British audience, come out from the realm of the departed pop and rock stars, the guitar techniques of heavy pitch bends, rapid detuning and discord notes are recognisible to many. The condensate forms the shape of a man, now identifiable as Jimmy Hendrix playing guitar.

Jimmi Hendrix: The Ju-ju man is right behind me, but poor Jimmi is running as fast as he can. Wooooh, yes sir, ol’ Jimmi’s moving so fast. Too fast. Too fast to see. Huh. Jimmi looks behind him at something the audience cannot see That old devil is right on my tail. Right on my tail. Oooh, alright. He improvises a twiddly guitar riff. The ol' bone man is coming to collect, collect poor Jimmi’s dusty tired bones. He plays a heavy bass riff while sliding up the fret-board then sliding down again to a lower pitch. Then plays a high wailing note while hitting the tremolo bar. 

The devil taught me the tritone. The sound of unreal voodoo maths built on crazy endless chaos. I had a dream where a bone collector played the guitar so frightening but so sweet that he caught my attention, made ol' Jimmy sit up and pay attention, but I knew then my heart was trapped in the music. I couldn't escape the endless unresolved screaming interval. I had to learn everything I could from this dream master and try to make sense of the sound of his pain. I tried to copy what I heard but it was just a imitation of the real thing but he taught me how to draw people in with music, to make their spirits vibrate and make them beg for resolution. The power of music is that you can control people's minds with the right musical intervals. I played the devil's music, notes that kept people's mind entranced waiting for you to give them the musical meaning to all the discord and confusion you had laid out on them. And all the cool cats did the same old thing, we all had that same spooky dream with the boneman. All of the bands played the devil's tune, we set up a world founded on dissonance and disharmony that waited and hoped for a resolution of meaning to it all. But it never came. We made this world where up is down and down is inside out, and nothing makes sense anymore except to those whose minds are already gone.

Jimmi Hendrix: This is my latest song, you ain't never heard this before because I wrote it when I was dead. Jimmy plays a sad and melancholy tune which in F flat with a minor plagal change, creating a tangible sadness. 

Messin’ around messing around, with another man’s wife. 
Gonna pay with your life.

Chandler was my good friend, a real cool cat,
But his wife was so fine...
I just couldn’t help it,
I was the lonesome man in the big city,
But messin’ about with another’s man’s wife, ahh, shucks, what a pity.

Now this stray-cat called Jeffries,
He was the magic-man,
Owned the clubs and put on all the bands,
He had stardust all over his hands,
And Chandler’s heart was sore at poor ol Jimmy,
So he made the deal to sell me on,
But the devil himself was the buyer,
And now Jimmy was the stage fool for hire.

Foolin’ around foolin' around, with another man’s wife. 
Gonna pay with your life.

All Jimmi’s money disappeared,
And I never saw where it went, 
That uncool cat was so far gone bent, 
And Jimmi wanted to leave for good,
But old Jeffries was nothing but a low-down hood,
And his hand was long, maybe Mi5
And that was the last time anyone saw poor Jimmy alive

Yessir. I paid the price for sleeping with Chandler's wife.
But she was so pretty, 
Dang shucks, ain't that a pity.

Messin’ around messing around, with another man’s wife. 
Gonna pay with my life.
Oh yeah, I paid all right, that's for sure. 

Membership of club 27 I would rather decline, 
But now I'm speaking to you from the other side

Cos Jeffries goons drowned ol' Jimmy in drugs and wine,
And it wasn't no accident, not even a suicide, 
Poor Jimmi didn't harm noone, 
He just wanted play his sweet guitar song.

The audience applaud but seem to still be under the impression that they are watching a hologram, though they aren’t quite sure why the hologram Jimmi would give this particular version of his death.

Someone shouts from the crowd ‘I love you Jimmi.’

Jimmi Hendrix: in reply Thank you. I need your love my friends, I’m in a lonely place, the loneliest place of all, a place where no warmth or love ever shines down on.

There is a tangible feeling of surprise from the crowd that this hologram seems able to respond to comments and questions.

Another voice calls out, ‘I thought you were dead.’ There is laughter from the audience.

Jimmi Hendrix: I am dead my friend, I’ve been dead now longer than I’ve ever been alive.

It seems to the audience that whatever this Jimmi Hendrix is, whether real, a hologram, alive or dead, is capable of holding a conversation with them.

A voice: Are you in rock-star hell Jimmy?

Jimmi Hendrix: answering simply Yes.

Another voice: Can we help you somehow?

Jimmi Hendrix: If you could that would be groovy.

Voice: What do we have to do?

Jimmi Hendrix: Let me tell you a secret, you’ve all been brought here under false pretexts. I know that you all have been sprayed with a dangerous space virus and you have been offered some crazy Hype Cola as the antidote, but when you leave here you’re gonna make everyone you meet sick, and unless they have the secret medicine, they will die. But something else is gonna happen, Sir Nob is going to…

Sir Nob Dogbeard: Ok that’s enough out of you Hendrix. We’re shutting you down.

Heavy looking security agents spring on John, Steve and Crew and grabbing Stookie Bill they rasp him rudely out of the input jack.

Jimmi Hendrix instantly vanishes from the Intervision screen. There are groans and boos from the audience.

They start chanting, ‘We want Jimmi, we want Jimmi’.

Sir Nob takes the stage, chuckling.

Sir Nob: It’s alright folks, just our little joke. Now we’ve had a good time we’re going to get down to the main business of the day.

The pink laser now appears fully operational and Sir Nob is about to activate it.

Sir Nob: We’re going to the next focken dimension folks, the world is never going to be the same, this is the new year zero. Are you ready?

Just as he is about to activate the laser there are clearly audible rock star noises.

Sir Nob: shouting backstage I thought that focken’ thing was switched off.

Whisky Jim Morrison: appearing onstage Woah, Yeah, yeah, I’m on, woah, you know the day destroys the night, woah.

Sir Nob Dogbeard: Get off my stage Morrison! What the fock is this? Where have all these dead fockers come from?

Whisky Jim Morrison: Woah, yeah, roawr.

Sir Nob Dogbear: I’ll drink you Morrison, don’t forget, I’m Irish.

Jim Morrison: Hey man, what is this skeleton whispy grey thing coming towards me, is it dead or alive? Weird scenes from the main-stage.

Sir Nob lunges towards the liquid form of Jim Morrison and with a huge supernatural gulp drinks him all up.

Steve, John and Crew are looking on from backstage.

Crew: Oh no, he drank him, down in one.

Steve: How did he manage that? There’s 20 litres of spirit in Jim.

Sir Nob is now raging drunk and swearing at everyone and everything indiscriminately.

Sir Nob: You fockers, what are ye’all looking at. I’ll focking tell y’why I don’t like Sundays. I wanna shoo-ooo-ooot you all down. Focking shite. All of it. They focking killed my Kunquat. Who? The focking Dark Circus. The Fockers who want to… Suddenly there is a red laser sight on Sir Nob’s head. Ye can’t shoot me, I work for the Focking UN…There is a shot and Sir Nob falls to the ground still clutching the mike. There are cheers and whistles from the crowd and applause.

Steve: Good Lord they shot Sir Nob!

Crew: Serves him right for drinking Jim Morrison. The Bastard. Is he dead?

John: He was already dead.

Crew: I mean Sir Nob.

Steve: Looks like it.

Crew: Who shot him?

John: He was talking about The Dark Circus, apparently about to spill the beans on the whole thing in his drunken Jim Morrison fueled bender. So we’d better try to get hold of that laser then.

Somebody scurries onto the stage.

Steve: Oh no, not Sting again.

Sting: Apologies ladies and gentlemen, there has been a small technical hitch. Above all don’t panic, everything will be ok once we switch on the pink laser, and we can put all this unpleasantness, the pop demons, Jim Morrison’s ghost and seeing Sir Nob Dogbeard being assassinated in front of an audience of millions by the Dark Circus secret society, behind us. What can I say folks? That’s rock n roll!

There are cheers and applause.

Steve: Wait a minute, what going on with Sir Nob’s body?

The fallen body of Sir Nob is shuddering animated with a strange new life.

Suddenly a sound comes from him, which is picked up by his microphone, a strange low kind of half whine and half growl which slowly grows in intensity.

John: Looks like some kind of muscle spasm, like a chicken will often run around on the strength of muscle and nerve tension when he has had his head been cut off.

Crew: This is a bit sick, someone should go over there and finish him off.

The growl turns suddenly and unmistakably into laughter. An almost demonic low laughter. Still laughing Sir Nob stands up, with a clearly visible head wound which is oozing blood.

Sir Nob Dogbeard: The show must go on ladies and gentlemen. You can’t kill me, I work for the UN. He laughs, them he laughs again. Then he sneezes suddenly and unexpectedly. Then he sneezes again, this time more violently and Jim Morrison’s whisky ghost is blown in a brown liquid stream out of his nose.

Sir Nob falls down dead, again.

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Act 7 Scene 6: The Devil Taught me the Tritone.
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