Author's notes: 1. As far as I know I'm the first Threepenny Opera fanfiction to be posted here. Please be kind, since it's been a while since I last saw the play and my soundtrack doesn't help out too much with place names. Just sit back and enjoy. I guarantee you'll like it even if you haven't seen the play.
2.Yes, I know I'm mixing eras but so did the actual play itself. Please ignore any technological discrepancies, even I'm not sure exactly what time I've set this in...
3. Song lyrics from the 1994 London Revival Cast Recording.
The scene is a typical one. There's nothing special about today. The sky is choked with smog, the industrial era robbing the skies of their blue. Everything is gray; There's no cheer to be found in the dark and dismal rainy streets of our suburban 'utopia'.
There's a dry opression here, somewhere under the slick cobblestones and the dirty water in the gutters. There's a sense of barely restrained atrocity, a savage heartbeat to this part of the city that pulses just beneath the surface. You could lose yourself here. In drugs, in sex, in violence; In body and in mind. If you were lucky, you might even be able to find your way back to where you came from.
This was his estate, the place where he called home. It was his and everyone knew it was his... Even if they didn't know who he was, there was something about the way he moved, something about the way he spoke, that gave off a feeling of ownership. A feeling of power that permeated the air around him and made him into a person to be both respected and feared.
Heck. They even sang songs about him here.
"Though the shark's teeth may be lethal,
Still you see them, white and red.
But you wont see Mackie's flick-knife,
'Cos he's slashed you, and you're dead!"
Pretty. Petty. Sung by a busker on the street. A man passing by was struck by a hint of ironic humour, and hiswhite gloved hand flipped the singer a coin. A stylish cane clicked against the pavement as the man passed by. Both the gloves and cane were a trademark of sorts, and the street singer's voice warbled out of pitch for just a moment.
A smile - more a smirk - crossed the man's lips, his brows arching just a bit in a sinister tilt. The scar on his face is as distinctive as anything else - 'mutton chops' doing little to disguise the angry pink tissue on his cheek. His mouth was thin and mean, but always ready with a charming smile that exposed teeth that seemed a little too long to be right and a little too crooked to be charming. His nose was long and crooked, having been broken more than once in the past. His eyes were sunken, their colour seeming as washed out as the streets and the same not quite there shade of gray.
The man was by no means handsome, but there was just something about him that managed to give him a certain air of appeal. A sick appeal; Something that drew women despite their fervent protests that it didn't feel right. Something that allowed complete disregard for the rings on their fingers or their 'working girl' schedule.
MacHeath was a very important man around this part of town. He had better be. Through delegation alone he was almost single-handedly responsible for every death in the district. Those who weren't in his employ soon discovered that work was not so easy to come by if one wasn't willing to turn tail and become a respectable gennelmen with a proper job. He who didn't fold often found himself with a flick-knife in his throat.
The establishment was classy enough for the area. It was free of rats and though run down, nothing needed much repair - which was more than could be said of most pubs along the way. Music was being played on a very beaten down gramaphone, the melody scratchy and dim and nearly drowned out by the noise of the patrons.
Even at such an early hour of the afternoon the pub was busy with custom. Some people were there to drink, some for a bite to eat, and some for neither. MacHeath was there for a meeting.
The crowd parted to the sound of his cane rapping on the floorboards. Talk didn't precisely stop as he neared, but merely lowered a decibel or two in a sweet parody of esteem. Fear was more likely the culprit, though MacHeath didn't care so long as it got the same result.
The man he was there to meet was already seated at a table in the corner, staring balefully out the window at the gray dullness of the street. MacHeath approached and slid into the seat opposite without notice. It took until a serving girl deposited a mug of beer at the table for the other man to even realise he was there.
"MacHeath," the other man began with a start, his voice pleasant and deep with just a hint of warmth. The man was handsome and clean cut, giving rise to the suspicion that he shouldn't rightly be consorting with the likes of MacHeath. "You should have said something. I didn't realise you were there."
"Evidently," MacHeath replied, his voice gravelly and his accent atrociously 'lower city'. He picked up the glass mug that sat in front of him and took a deep pull. He drank beer like the common rabble, wasting no time on pretentious niceties... and yet somehow not marring the perfect white of his gloves. "I might be of a mind to think you weren't keen on us meeting today."
"Dont be ridiculous-" now that they both spoke it was obvious that the more pleasant-looking man also had a much more pleasant accent "-my distraction has nothing to do with you. Let me buy you a beer to make up for it, eh?"
MacHeath simply raised his glass again along with an eyebrow and his thin lips curled into a grin. The other man shook his head; "Distracted, distracted... your next one's on me."
"Awful kind of you, Tiger."
"Just doing a mate a favour," the other man - police chief Tiger Brown - smiled wanly. A sharp silence descended, broken only by MacHeath's empty glass hitting the table. With a weary eye Tiger surveyed the street outside again. "Horrible weather. Too blasted cold, too blasted wet."
"It'll get worse before it gets better," MacHeath stated dismissively, referring to the oncoming winter. "Sleet," he drawled mercilessly, playing upon the other man's dislike of the cold, "snow. Ice on the stones. It'll be wrecks on the streets soon as you like."
Tiger Brown seemed to give a little shudder and hunkered down in his thick woolen jacket. It was unclear what made him have such a reaction, the mention of the cold, or the mention of potential accidents on the road. A moment's pause saw him gain enough of a backbone to make a retort that on any other many would have been considered sly. "Which presents the perfect opportunity for your light-fingered friends if they happen to step in to help out at a wealthy man's automobile wreck."
"Of course," MacHeath replied, something about the way he spoke implying that to him such robbery was on par with the weather as a subject of discussion.
"But you sent for me for a different reason, didn't you?" Tiger Brown's look became shrewd, all traces of his earlier distraction gone. "No small talk today, I see, eh?"
One white-gloved hand raised, fingers motioning towards the bar. A serving woman hurried over with another mug of beer, the empty glass mug disappearing when she retreated. "No small talk," MacHeath spoke over the top of his glass, pausing to take a gulp. "See... I'm concerned about a few rumours I've been hearing about a fire 'round a hotel in Soho. Word is some flatfoot picked up a nasty looking bit of evidence at the scene of the crime..."
"A flick-knife," Tiger Brown responded in a coversational tone, "one with a distinctive silver handle. It was found in the ashes beneath one of the deceased victims. A very nasty business, it seems that flick-knife may be the only bit of a clue the plice department has as to who it was that started that fire."
"It was arson?" The tone of voice implied that he knew it already.
"It was arson," the police cheif echoed in the same tone of voice, "the way the building burned would suggest that someone set off the cans of kerosene in the basement... after moving them upstairs and close to the exit."
"Nasty business," MacHeath shook his head, an expression of sadness so genuine that it was almost real crossing his face. "About that knife..." There was a long pause. Both of the men at the table knew what was going to be said next. "It would be a bit of a pity if it were to disappear, say. Wouldn't it? A real crying shame, I'd say."
"It would be a shame indeed. I'd have to suspend the man who lost it."
"You'd have to give him a little leave to go on holiday with his family," MacHeath corrected. "It's only 'suspend' in the books, isn't it, Tiger?"
Tiger Brown closed his eyes and sent a small insincere prayer up to a God he very rarely paid any attention to. He looked out onto the street, then turned back to his friend with a smile. "Dont make a habit of losing your things around police investigations, MacHeath. Better to get your gloves a bit dirty than leave a piece of evidence behind, eh?"
MacHeath chuckled, the sound escaping his lips as gravel roles down a slope. "I knew I could count on you to be a mate. Have a pint on me." Macheath raised a gloved hand into the air. With a simple wave the serving woman was back. It took only a small nod in Tiger's direction to have her place the fresh mug of beer in front of him, then she was off again as quick as a flash. MacHeath watched her go, letting his eyes slide over the crowd now that 'business' was out of the way.
A musical laugh caught his attention from somewhere in the crowd of patrons and MacHeath's eye was drawn to a table of young women who were sipping glasses of water and picking at the house special. It was the brunette that caught his eye - a tall young woman with a pretty face and a stubborn chin, her dress just a little too shabby to pass as new and fashionable though it came very close.
"I seem to have lost you," Tiger Brown spoke up from across the table, sounding very amused by something. "What's got your eye?"
"A woman." The reply was absent-minded and Tiger Brown rolled his eyes;
"Of course."
MacHeath brushed his chin with gloved fingers as he considered the young woman and her posse of friends; He tapped his cane against his calf in a contemplative manner, watching her. Without so much as a 'farewell' to his present company he drained the last of his beer and abruptly stood.
The cane tapped ambiably against the floor as MacHeath made his way across the room to the young woman's table; His lips were stretched into a cat-like smile. As he approached the ladies' table their talk quieted and their attention fell to him. MacHeaths eyes locked with those of the stubborn beauty's and he growled out a simple order despite the time of day and despite the noise of the pub drowning out most of the music: "Dance with me."
The young woman carried a fan that fluttered against her breast as she looked at him, obviously judging his looks to be less than satisfactory. Then her eyes got to his face, and the unpleasant smile on his thin lips. She seemed about to speak, whether to be in dismissal or agreeance when one of her friends cut in with a hiss.
"Polly, dont!"
That seemed to decide her and the young woman's fan shut with a snap. She nodded to him and pushed back her chair to stand. "Why not?" She said defiantly, and in her voice a hint of a northern accent.
MacHeath smiled and made an almost mocking bow, offering her his arm while at the same time shoving his cane into the hands of one of her friends. "Hold that," he told the girl, baring his teeth in a grin. The girl looked terrified, which made him laugh lightly to himself as he led his dance parter out into suddenly clear space on the floor.
The sounds of the bar dimmed with a glare in the direction of the staff and music became louder than conversation. They began a waltz that was somehow indecent to watch, though nobody could quite say how. It might have been his grip on her waist, or how he seemed to pull her close enough that they nearly touched. The sway becoming disgusting in a manner; If only they were naked, someone whispered, it might have been sex.
Polly Peachum turned her face away breifly to look back at her table before whipping around in defiance to stare him straight in the eye. She was close enough that she could smell the beer on his breath. She could almost taste it, both disgusting and captivating.
His hand on her waist squeezed slightly, and a sudden smirk let her know that he knew that she wasn't wearing a girdle as most young women her age would. His grayish eyes were hypnotising.
"Your name," he seemed to growl in a strange kind of purr, "tell me."
"Polly," she replied automatically, then added her last name almost as an afterthought, "Peachum."
"MacHeath," he replied simply, staring at her face in a manner that she knew she should consider inappropriate.
"No last name?" Polly asked lightly as they spun, a little too close to that his leg brushed hers. At the last second she realised that 'MacHeath' could very well be his last name and she should've asked for his first.
He grinned at her in the same manner that a wolf grins at a sheep. "I dont need one." His grin refused to die and he rumbled at her in a tone inaudible to anyone else who might be nearby. "Miss Peachum, would you care to tell me why you're not wearing proper underwear today?"
Polly blushed, though to be quite honest she felt a lot less ashamed than she should have. "My girdle is being washed," she hissed in a whisper, "but bloomers and a camisole is hardly improper underwear for a young lady."
"Lets take a look," MacHeath purred ruthlessly and she became aware that he was steering her towards the back of the pub. They stopped dancing when they got close to the bar and then Polly barely had time to spare a glance at her table before strong hands pulled her out of sight.
She was yanked into the pub's store room and pushed back against the wall with steely precision, gloved hands holding her arms.
His mouth crushed down onto hers, and the taste of the pub's best beer invaded her mouth - just a hint of something smoky in his smell. His hands left her arms and instead moved to fumble with the material of her skirt.
Polly raised her hands to his chest, not sure if she were meaning to push him away or clutch at his collar. She had yet to touch him when the point of a knife was suddenly beneath her chin.
"Dont scream," MacHeath warned her softly, "or I'll cut your tongue out."
"I'm not going to scream!" Polly whispered hotly, scandalised at the thought.
"Good. It'd be a pity to have to cut you." As he spoke his free hand managed to pull her skirt up, exposing her legs. He leant back to look at them, his blade still under her chin.
Polly shifted her weight self-consciously as MacHeath's eyes raked up her legs and to her light peach undergarments. "It's not polite to stare," she snapped irritably, adding afterwards, "at least not with a knife under my chin."
"It's a neccessary precaution," Macheath replied, releasing her skirt to tough her thigh with his gloved hand.
"Neccessary precaution?" She repeated incredulously, then crossed her arms in a huff. "Who says I wouldn't have let you anyway if you'd just asked?"
Intrigued, MacHeath looked back up at her face. Seeing the stubborn tilt of her chin and the lack of fear in her eyes he stepped back, letting her skirt fall back down and discreetly tucking his knife away and out of sight. "Alright then. Show me your legs, Miss Peachum?"
With a distinctly defiant air the young woman grabbed her skirt and bunched up the material in her hands, exposing her legs to mid-thigh. "Show me yours, Mr. Macheath?" She challenged.
For a moment it looked as though her remark had sparked his temper. MacHeath stared at her, a gloved hand twitching towards the pocket in which he knept his knife. Then he laughed. "Put your skirt down, Polly," he chuckled, waving a hand at her. "We'll go back out and dance, then I'll take you to dinner. How's that, Miss Peachum?"
Polly nodded snippily and sniffed, her unimpressed tone of voice contrasting with the words she spoke: "That sounds deligthful, Mr. MacHeath."
Should I continue? Tell me your thoughts.