Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXXI. M&Mʼs For Breakfast

ACT IV
M&Mʼs For Breakfast
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1
GOËTIAʼS HUT
Angus
New Orleans, Louisiana
Bourbon Street
October 31st, 1801
Time: Unknown
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The devil came down to Louisiana, and when he did, Louisiana bled.

Rivers of blood. A graveyard of bones and blood, so pungent the sky grew into a burning red. Among the corpses, the pack of rougarous howling in their wake, Angus woke to the sight of mutilation in New Orleans. Fair dames, slain and gutted before him, entrails giving life to the blood moon above. Their throats deeply slashed, their abdomens and genitals mutilated, their hearts dripping down their throats. The bodies were stacked for miles, culling the horde of humans, and the rougarous purged New Orleans without an uncleʼs mercy. It made for a bloody business.

And Angus, it appeared, was in the business of being bloody.

Angus watched as ravens took to the skies, their feet being eaten by crows, the cannibalistic hunter streaking the perilous night. Around him, Bourbon Streetʼs black licorice and spiced rum pleasantries were smoldered in ash, with fire licking the rooftops like gumdrops. Sawtoothed and knuckle-deep in showers of guts and blood, the hurricane kisses and doorway drinks of the Big Easy were reduced to a gasping whisper, choking on curdles of its own flesh.

Angus panted, slowly regaining consciousness, climbing over the pile of corpses, grunting and cursing under his breath. 

       The Two Murderers were lost to the carnage.

In the horizon, a Hut of rot and ruin, underneath the vaulted sky stood, angry, waiting, perched on skinned, bloodied chicken legs. Orcs were devouring meat and grinding on bone, and the wind whistled. The Hut sat on a sea of decapitate heads, every heightened strand of frozen grain, every perilous animal that flitted across the fields. With a longsword in hand, Angus listened to the cannibals feast on the dead and the rougarous eat babies amidst the churches; all with slitted eyes glowing bright in the haze of redness. Of smoke. He walked over bones of the dead, bones of the broken, bones of the loss, the Louisiana clay devouring the sole of his feet as he stood over them all.

And in the distance, amidst the mayhem and slaughter, the mother of monsters stood above, damned by darkness, a Creole priestess whose lips were drenched in the blood of his people. 

Angus stared on, murder in his eyes, holding a simple Body of Christ in his hands.

She simply smiled crimson.

        Come to me, my child.