aka Why Space Opera Will Always Be Better than a Real Opera

by PhonerionBallznevsky

[Author's note: There are two previous adventures in this trilogy. The first can be found in Tevun-Krus #4: Space Opera, and the second can be found in the Tevun-Krus #55: May the 4th Be With You issue.]

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So I'm walking home from a construction site after a long day cleaning the big boys' turds from the porta-potties, when I spot Darth Cunnilingus and Leia, my ex-wife, walking hand in hand along the sidewalk. I wipe the poodoo on my Mandalorian battle trousers, quicken my pace to shorten the distance between us, and follow.

It's been six long years since I'd first met Darth Cunnilingus the Efficient, shagger of the ex-missus and adoptive father of my pet yoda.

Don't go looking for footnotes, Padawan—we can't afford those. Not anymore.

Not since Emperor Pumpateen returned... somehow.

The dark side pervades the whole galaxy. The number of people who identify as Jedi on yearly census forms is at an all-time low. Not to mention we're on the seventy-first wave of a brutal pandemic, all thanks to one stupid Martian farmer who had a kink for stuffing fruit bats with his rooster. The bat, like Han in Episode IV, had shot first. Then bit the bastard. Then he'd gone and coughed up a storm all over the planet. And here we are.

Times are tough. I'm barely getting by, what with the new job-lottery system and deliberate food shortages. The Empire is starving us. It doesn't matter how many toilets I clean with my tongue, I can still barely afford one loaf of just-expired bread and a can of sardines I give out to the neighbourhood space-cats. The whole thing is rigged. Manipulated. Like the Force.

The great Ben Kenobi once said, "A new hope rises from the ashes of the Empire," or maybe I just made that up. In any case, I know Darth is a higher-up executive in the Empire—Empire Holdings, the megacorp that runs the whole galaxy. Darth had been screwing my wife behind my back, all those years ago when I'd been paying guys to rail her. If Darth dies, maybe the Empire will fracture and a new hope will rise—just like Obi-Wan may have said. I can't remember.

I unclip my fold-up mop from my utility belt and unfold it into a staff with a smelly, floppy rag on the end. It's no lightsaber but it can definitely give someone brain damage if you hit them hard enough. Or enough times.

Drawing closer to Darth and Leia, mop in hand and ready to swing, I ask myself if revenge is something only the Sith enjoy, or if Jedi are allowed the occasional indulgence, too.

In any case, it's irrelevant, because I identify as a Pastafarian.

The two lovebirds stand outside the Red Planet Opera House. I make like I'm mopping the street and do my best to hide my familiar face and even more familiar tattoo of a podrace going straight down my ass crack.

Then Darth goes and says, "Here we are, sweet cinnamon buns. I do love a good opera!"

Leia always had a short fuse. In a tone I remembered all too well, she shouts, "I told you not to call me that!"

The sort of tone that made me feel completely worthless as a person, and particularly inept as a man. My therapist refers to it in our deep-dive, MDMA-enhanced sessions as "The Humiliation Tone." She's written thirty-two bestsellers on the subject, with yours truly serving as the lead case study. I was tricked into signing a terrible contract during one of our sessions because I was too busy dancing my sweet, plump ass off to X-Dream, so I don't earn any royalties. Yeah, my life stinks.

"You'll be sorry if you call me that again!" Leia keeps shouting. And she gets that finger going. Right in Darth's face.

I shrink a bit inside, even though Leia's words aren't for me. Such is the power of The Humiliation Tone.

"You're right, milady," Darth says without missing a beat. "I apologize. I love your hair."

"That's better. Now, let's go inside before that filthy vagrant's smell sticks to us."

I'm sweeping around the corner and I can hear Leia's nose crinkling with disgust.

Darth says something and she laughs.

I wait a minute, sweeping up some shit, then head into the Red Planet Opera House with an intent to kill, maim, or seriously injure. It's an upscale place. Classy. Everything's red and gold. The ticket person frowns upon seeing me.

"We have a dress code," they say, sneering like they've just stepped in dogshit. "And a smell ban."

There's a sign with the ticket prices behind them. "More than I can afford," I say. And it's true. I'd have to clean some pretty swanky toilets with my tongue for about ten years before I could afford tickets at these prices.

"I'm sorry... sir," they tell me, and that last word is almost like an afterthought.

I walk out, deflated that my brilliant plan to brain Darth—and thus win back Leia's love—has been destroyed.

A stormtrooper stands outside, shooting at a soda can on the other side of the street and hitting everything but.

He hears me come out. Turns and says, "Are you the guy who wants to kill Darth Cunnilingus?"

I say, "Depends. Who wants to know?"

"Have you heard of Jar Jar Industries?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Well, Mr. Binks hassa beeg opportunity for you. Sorry."

"I'm all ears," I say, beating him to the punch.

"Yes, I can tell," he says, besting me. "Mr. Binks will be here any minute."

Just then a true-to-life replica of a Gungan battle wagon rolls up, looking like a big gold ball being dragged by a camel with severe burns. The door to the wagon opens by rotating upward. The worst Jar Jar Binks cosplayer I've ever seen sits inside, grinning teeth about twenty sizes too big for his mouth. His droopy ears hang down to his armpits and I'm praying to the Sith Lords they're prosthetics.

I'm expecting the most offensive attempt at a Gungan accent ever, but instead the Binks cosplayer sounds gruff and manly, like he's from Pidgeonhole, Iowa.

"Hi, pleased to meet you. I'm Mr. Binks. I've been watching your life unravel for quite some time. How would you like to kill Darth Cunnilingus for me?"

I check my watch. "I have to be at work in two hours. And I really thought this would be the last in the trilogy."

Mr. Binks laughs. "You're funny. I like you. Come on in," he says, scooting over, and I do.

As soon as I sit down, the door rotates shut and the driver whips the ugly camel into drive. We travel a few blocks in silence.

Then Mr. Binks rubs my shoulder and says, "You see, what you need to understand is, if the money's right, there's always potential for a sequel..."

I think about my options. I hated the prequel trilogy, and don't even get me started on the sequel trilogy. And the spinoffs? If I had a time machine, I'd go back to just after Return of the Jedi came out on VHS and frame George Lucas for a terrible crime he didn't commit, sullying the Star Wars name so bad that making a sequel would be box-office suicide. Keep the franchise pure.

I think about when my ex-wife and I would get freaky to Han-and-Chewie workout videos.

I think about all the footnotes I used to have. Way more than I needed.

I say to Mr. Binks, "Who do I have to kill to get a proper stormtrooper's shot at Darth?" 

"I like your spirit. May the fourth be with you." He grins and his cheap-looking ears plop off.[1]

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[1] Wow, one footnote! Mr. Binks' proposal is already paying off.