-The Scottish Play

William Shakespeare's, Macbeth. Act V; Scene VIII.

Set year: 2010

~

"Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
on my own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gathes
do better upon them."

The once deafening sound of a motorcycle engine now came to a slow halt. Agitated, Macbeth tapped the gas guage, hoping that this would somehow change the direction of the minuscule arrow which was now pointing at E.
Empty. He would have to travel on foot.
Leaving the motorcycle behind the nearest dumpster, he began crossing the street right as the sun began to set. The city was no place to be at night, he had to get somewhere, anywhere, before the darkness set in. Macbeth had no notion of where he was going, he just knew he had to leave his old life behind him.
The lightning in the distance illuminated some unknown skyscraper, so that every jagged detail was visible, even from far off. Mind racing, heart pounding, Macbeth moved with inhuman speed through the tall, horribly brown grass along the sidewalk. His mind, for the most part, was elsewhere. Thoughts of the blood that had been spilled on his account were circling in his head. All the many lives wasted and spent for his behalf were now but a memory. And for what? What was the reasoning behind all the violent bloodshed?

No man of woman born...

The single powerline above Macbeth's head flared and sparked menacingly, causing him to stop mid-thought. The storm was growing ever nearer, reaching beyond the immense buildings and towards the urban city limits where Macbeth stood. He could feel the rain coming closer, and the tension building in the wind.

"Turn, hell-hound, turn!"

Macbeth swung round to face the mysterious voice, and even in the darkness he knew to whom the voice belonged.

"Of all men else I have avoided thee:but get thee back; my soul is too much chargedwith blood of thine already"

Silence. Nothing but silence. Even the wind did not make a sound. Macbeth's eyes darted from alley to alley, corner to corner, waiting for a response.

click

Macbeth leapt into the nearest alleyway as fast as was humanly possible. He knew all to well what the small, indistinct noise signified.

"I have no words:my voice is in my gun: thou bloodier villainthan terms can give thee out!"

BANG

McDuff's bullet only grazed Macbeth's left shoulder, severing his skin and puncturing his muscle. Blood was rapidly pouring out of the open wound, making it hard for Macbeth to concentrate on unsnapping the gun from the holster on his hip. Still blinded by the pain, Macbeth could only crouch down and wait for the next move, gun at the ready.

snap

That's all that Macbeth needed. MacDuff's position was now compromised, thanks to his clumsy footfall. Macbeth swung around the building and shot like mad until one of the bullets hit it's mark. The sound of the lead hitting bone combined with the shriek of agony told Macbeth that his enemy was down.
He ran over to the scene, gun aimed at the shriveled mass which had now collapsed to the ground. MacDuff was now surrounded by puddles of his own blood, now oozing out of a garish hole on his upper thigh. Macbeth could only smile, knowing that MacDuff's failed assassination would now cost him his own life.

"Thou losest labour:as easy mayst thou the intrenchant airwith thy keen pistol impress as make me bleed:let fall thy weapon on vulnerable crests;I bear a charmed life, which must not yield,to one of woman born."

"Despair thy charm;and let the angel whom thou still hast servedtell thee, Macduff was from his mother's wombuntimely ripp'd."

A look of utter horror crept across Macbeth's face, replacing his once contemptuous grin with a look of absolute shock and disbelief.
How could this be? What of the witches prophecy?
The realization of the situation hit him like a brick, causing him to become slightly off balance. Staggering a little, he finally cleared his head and gathered his thoughts.

"Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,for it hath cow'd my better part of man!And be these juggling fiends no more believed,that palter with us in a double sense;that keep the word of promise to our ear,and break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee."

Macbeth began to lower his weapon and look for any means of escape, his very survival depended on it. He was no longer safe while he was still in the presence of MacDuff, the man not of woman born.

"Then yield thee, coward,and live to be the show and gaze o' the time:we'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,painted on a pole, and underwrit,'here may you see the tyrant.' "

As MacDuff said this, he manage to shift his way up onto his feet. One hand applying pressure to his now gruesome bullet wound. The other, gripping the pistol, now hidden behind his back out of Macbeth's view.
Macbeth knew the outcome this night would have; his fate was now sealed. The Witches prophecies were right on all accounts.
Acceptance was the only thing Macbeth could do. The muscles all over his face and body now seemed to relax, the burning pain that had once engulfed his shoulder had now vanished. His acceptance allowed him to have one last moment of peace, before his inevitable final duel.

"I will not yield,and thou opposed, being of no woman born,yet I will try the last. Before my bodyI throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,and damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"

His hand went straight for his holstered gun, but all too late. The final shot had already been fired.
The rule of Macbeth was now at an end.

~

-Fin

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.

-The Scottish Play

-Human Ref

-Credits

All dialogue written by William Shakespeare,
Human Ref.; Norman Reedus, Boondock Saints
Setting, story theme, dialogue modifications/modernizations and all the other crap by me.