Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

V. Hellʼs Angels

3
Macbeth
Chicago, Illinois
Hellʼs Angels
October 31st, 2014
Time: 4:20 AM
_____________________________

Chicago was cold and Hyde Park didnʼt fare any better.

Chewing on a deep-crusted pizza pie slice he stole from Mezzanotteʼs, Macbeth snaked around the streets and floundered in Wind City. The streets moved faster than light, a sea of green grass and green-eyed jealousy that flitted across the roads, all possessed by swarms of people. Along the streets of Chicago were barracks and strings of nudie bars, near the darker corners of the boulevards, and as Macbeth rounded the corners, hustlers drank whiskey and vermouth. Stumblinʼ drunk, gigglinʼ drunk, singinʼ drunk, bluntly and brutally drunk.

Stuck in the middle of the street, horns blared and screeches echoed through the blackened streets. Blood red neon, dark contours of rivers, the wannabe street thugs sat on the sides – their arithmetic was sharper than their knives. Stuffing his hands into Frankʼs thrift store trench-coat and walking a little while, Macbeth strolled through the streets as the dead of the night hooted and cawed its encouragement. The night bit into his skin, slicing, but he embraced it. Embraced the coolness, the brisk, fresh feeling, the way it smelled like...her.

       Marjorie. His dark flower.

Wolf-whistles interrupted his reverie. Guitar-riffs perfumed the air, moans perforated through the air, and he walked through the crowd of horny teenagers and enamored drug dealers. A neon HELLʼS ANGELS sign glowed, surrounded by other glowing contours of naked women – all as  cheap rock played in the background of crescendoing moans and dirty old guys jerking off like overpaid porn stars.

Macbeth looked the sign up and down, and a poster for nudie bar dancer "Daemona Kills" met his gaze. 

He huffed.

Fitting.

"Ay, buddy! You gonna stare at the merchandise, or...?"

Macbeth stared at up at the pudgy, old mini Frank with distaste and went back to inspecting the poster. "Daemonaʼs" eyes were silvery, fiery, like the blood-red dye that painted her obsidian curls. She was skinnier than he remembered, her skin an unusually blanched white, but perkier; well endowed. Sin incarnate. Macbeth spared the mini Frank a sideways glance and spoke in his deep, rich Scottish accent. Original and foreign, in every facet.

"Does Decarabia work at this...foul place of yours, lad? English lass. Tempting, ruthless."

Mini Frank seemed taken aback by the way he spoke her name; gradually, as if it were cursed. Like an angelʼs who fell from grace.

Macbeth smiled grimly. 

"Whoʼre you?" he asked, guarded.

"An old friend," Macbeth said simply.

Pause.

"Sheʼs performing now," he said in response, shuddering at how crooked Macbethʼs smile was and how much blood coated his jacket.

Minutes turned to seconds, seconds to years, and he was distracted. So distracted. The scent, the scent...

      A young girl radiated a hypnotic aura.

She was bohemian, in a way. Exotic but warm, familiar. Flowers and fauna adorned her crown and wove into the caramel curls that spilled onto her shoulders. As she skirted across the street, head tucked down to avoid the blistering skin, Macbeth watched her eyes light up; hazel brown, like the autumn evening, but pure...innocent. Hanging on a leafʼs golden thread. She had his fire thundering through her veins, his blood, and when he tried to tear away, the allure was all too familiar. Her skin was flushed a golden tan, her cheekbones were sharp, and freckles splashed her nose – but that wasnʼt what was familiar.

It was Marjorie. Marjorieʼs words.

"I would, while it was smiling in my face, have pluckʼd my n*pple from his boneless gums and dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you have done to this," she had said; her voice now a haunting echo upon a dead, dirty sea.

        If it meant staying in power, Iʼd kill my child by bashing his brains in.

Her words. Marjorieʼs words.

Clearing his throat, Macbeth watched the girl scurry away in a hazy mist in awe. 

         The blood-line survived.

He cleared his throat again.

"Good," Macbeth replied finally. "Show me in."