Hurly-burly - Act II "Thou art not without ambition, But without the illness should attend it; What thou wouldst highly, That thou wouldst holily; Wouldst not play false And yet wouldst win wrongly." Lady MacBeth, 'MacBeth' As a friend, Doctor Charizard would say, "BOO, I DEMAND MORALITY!!!" I know I'm a little early in my updating part II, but the response to chapter one was better than I thought it would be. Special thanks to those who READ and REVIEWED the first half of the take. I thought it more than necessary to do my own Shakespeare interpretation, seeing as another author (who shall remain nameless, but you probably all know who by now anyway) did a most original retelling of Romeo And Juliet, with Ash and Misty as the leads. How refreshing it is to see that people aren't rehashing worn ideas not seen on the Nanny, or Gilmore Girls. Despair. So I decided to do my own, but with one of his plays not yet interpreted by many fan fiction authors: MacBeth, which to me is my very favourite of Shakespeare's plays. A NOTE ABOUT SHAKESPEARE If you wish to read the story, skip this part. Wills Shakespeare wrote many plays, all of which fell into three categories: his comedies (like Twelfth Night, Midsummer Night's Dream and The Taming of the Shrew), his historical plays (like Antony and Cleopatra, Julius Caesar and Henry V), and his greatest triumphs, the four tragedies: King Lear, Othello, MacBeth and Hamlet. For several reasons, 'Romeo and Juliet' falls into none of the above categories, and does not classify as a tragedy. Whilst some may argue that it does because of the death of the main characters, true tragedies are such because of a character flaw in an otherwise good person, which ultimately led to their demise. In the case of King Lear, his poor judge of character; in Othello, his insane jealousy; in Hamlet his indecisiveness; and in MacBeth, his ambition at any cost. Whilst the inner conflicts caused the outer turmoil, in R&J, the outer tensions eventually led to inner grief, and the destruction of life. Ok, I'm done with my little rant now. I love Shakespeare, as it is now obvious, and hopefully I'll get to stage my own version of his first full-length play, Titus Andronicus. Gotta love a good pie. That also doesn't fall into any of the categories, but it's probably quasi tragedy/historical. The show must go on. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** "Well, you have it all now, don't you Gary? Leader of Cinnabar AND ultimate Master, and now you've got the lead role in MacBeth." Tracey said, walking beside him. The old trees down by the creek flowing through the Oak property groaned, the willowy tendrils draping out and brushing at their cheeks. "Yeah, can't complain about the current situation." Gary said, not meeting his friend's gaze. "Just like the sisters promised." "Yep." "Though somehow… I fear thou play'dst most foully for't." He looked up to meet Tracey's eyes, staring at his own with intent. "What do you mean?" "It was a bit fortuitous that Ritchie somehow made himself scarce at Ash's demise… of course, you'd know if anything were to have happened that night, wouldn't you?" He gulped. "You know I would. But you can't complain, can you? If my prophecies came true, then surely yours will… what was it again, not greater but greater, or something like that?" "I suppose…" he looked back at his slender friend, whose eyes had returned to the ground. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** "Upon thee, MacBeth, their speech's shine… and… um… Mr Spielbunk sir, what's the next line?" The actors groaned. Tracey, for all his features, was an exceptionally slow learner, and it was at least the seventeenth time that they'd rehearsed his soliloquy. Gary stood behind the side curtain, watching him with disdain. "Look, ok. Stop. We'll call it a wrap for the day, and start again tomorrow with Gary's duologue with the murderer. You were all terrific guys. I hope that you're all coming tonight for the benefit dinner - we are running a teensy bit behind costs, as usual… hope to see you there!" The actors and crew muttered, and picked their belongings. Gary caught up in stride with Misty, taking hold of her hand. "Scared, my lord?" "Fucking fearful, dearest love. I think Tracey knows." She stopped, pulling him up beside her. "What do you mean?" "He knows about us… and Ash… we walked this morning, and he implied that I'd done dishonourably for my role." "What can you do about it?" "It's concluded; Tracey, thy soul's flight, if it find heaven, must find out tonight…" *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** Walking through the streets of Pallet, he often stopped, at the sight of a child in a cap, or a young man fighting with his companions. Tracey rubbed elbow, and continued along his way. The shortest route through the city of Pallet was by bypassing the park; dissected by the river, he'd only have to cross the stone bridge to make it to the Ketchum's district. As he approached the bridge, he heard footsteps behind him. Slow, silent at first, then picking up speed, and soon a rush of air hit his lungs as he was thrust down onto the ground, black fabric covering his face. No sooner had he hit the ground, he felt a harsh, blunt impact on his temple, and half his world collapsed - why, he was only really half alive when the second blow was administered, cracking open his skull… *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** Her gown swishing red, she approached him, his arm linking around hers. "I've scotch'd the snake." She nodded, laying her head on his shoulder. "Please forget it all now; there's nothing more you can do to Ash, or to make it worse. It is behind us." "Hopefully." The doors swung open, the guests swirling in time to the deep strings. She took his hand, and pressed herself into him, guiding him instep to the music. "Try to look happy." She whispered into his ear. "You try looking happy when you've had your two friends murdered…" "Don't admit to such things, not in present company." He nodded, laying his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes, his body moving involuntarily. Behind him, with a short young girl, Brock danced giddily, hoisting his young sister into the air with shrieks and cries of joy. Almost dozing off, Gary awoke as the orchestra stuck a loud note, and a familiar young man with black hair twirled past them. His eyes snapped fully open, hunting for the ghostly figure, but the bodies in the room were still alive. "What's the matter?" "Oh… just thought I saw someone I knew from a long time ago…" The figure moved past again, dancing in time with Delia, her eyes closed and body pressed to his. He pulled away from Misty, looking once again for Tracey. Nobody; an apparition. "A word, Master Oak?" he turned to face Jesse, dressed in a long, black gown. A tiny ruby droplet clung to her cheek. "There's blood on your face." "If so, it's Tracey's." He smiled. "Good - tis better he without than in. What did you do with him?" "He now lies at the bottom of the Duncan; there's no possible way that he could be alive." He turned from her. "You'll get what I promised you. You know it. You'd best be off." She nodded, and turned away, sashaying to the exit. The guests had now taken their seats at a grand table, almost a hundred feet long, and attempting to seat more than two hundred. "You know your degrees, take your seats." Spielbunk said, motioning for them to sit. Gary sat at the head, looking down on all the patrons; Misty to his left, and Spielbunk to his right. "I think it appropriate that we have a speech from our new leading man, one who I'm assured will lead my theatre company into a new, brighter era… may you do the honours, Mr MacBeth?" Gary stood, the guests applauding politely. He stared down the rows, his opposing end empty, but guests on either side of him. Holding his glass shakily, he spoke: "My friends, patrons of the theatre… tonight we pay tribute to a young life cut off in its prime, a young man who lived his life to the fullest, though last night was cruelly dispatched. Ash Ketchum was a dear friend of mine; not only mine, but to Misty, and Tracey… wherever he may be tonight… and I think it only worthy to pay homage to such a…" His glass dropped, shattering the wine all over the table, splattering onto his white shirt. At the end of the table sat Tracey, his skin purple, his hair wet and clumping, and a horrible black bruise on his left temple. Misty looked up at him, questioning him silently. Tracey simply sat, shaking his head, making a slow cutthroat action at Gary. "Who has done this?" he whispered growlingly, his eyes shrunken in petrified rage. "You cannot shake those gory locks at me!" the guests begun to talk venomously amongst themselves, pointing at the angered young master. Misty pulled him down, rubbing his arm. She took a stand. "Friends, don't be alarmed, he is often like thus; tis only momentary." He continued to stare at his friend; though so far away, he could smell the mud, the cold rotting flesh. "Quit my sight! Let the river hide thee!" Brock glared at him, raising his eyebrows, and as Gary glanced fleetingly at him, he saw the truth… that one powerful enough held the truth, and his final undoing. Misty grabbed him, dragging him out of the hall, and sitting him against the ledge. "Shut up, fool, don't you know what you're doing?" He sank to his knees, sobbing, clutching at the sagging silk of her dress. From the tall glass windows, Tracey watched, his fingers pressed to the glass. Gary pointed at him, and screeched. "There he is, don't you see him? Don't you see him Misty, he was seated up on the far chair, staring at me…" She turned, and saw nothing, only the revelling of the guests inside, who'd forgotten his outburst. A thin handprint was disappearing from the glass. "Brock…" "What about him?" "He… he was too inquisitive of the murder… and I fear he may know." "You cannot kill him too." "I know; I've got someone in his house, watching to see what he'll do. I can only do one thing, Misty." "What's that?" "Tomorrow I seek the weird sisters: more shall they speak, for I am bent to know by the worst means the worst." He stood, and shakily walked out onto the footpath, clenching his fists. She watched after him, wrapping her arms around her body. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** In the dressing room, Lily scratched a blemish from her cheeks, picking at the black dust in the sealed bag. "What time did he say he would get here?" "Soon… in the cauldron boil and bake the eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog…" "Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble… or something…" Daisy added, stirring a can of microwave soup with her fingers, the steaming confection not seeming to affect her. "Oh, MAGNIFICENT, darlings!" The door burst open, and James, in his blazing moltres costume entered, resplendent with makeup and bright gold earrings. "Oh, Master James… have you, like, heard the news?" He cocked his ears flamboyantly, moving in closer. "Speak up, peaches, I can't hear you." "We've totally set up this fantastically evil plot, to like destroy the twerps!" "Oh, really? I'll be the judge of that, cheeky-chops! Now, do divulge the magnificent details!" he took a seat on the bench, inching the makeup away with his bottom. The girls smiled devilishly. "We've taken advance of a certain young man's dormant ambition, and he, like totally flipped, and offed his two best friends!" James giggled in glee, clapping his hands together. "Oh, this is terribly wonderful!" The door peeked open a little, Gary pushing it open, and standing, his suit worn shabbily, his face in a frown. "Tell me what I need to know, foul hags… and James… you're looking even more flamboyant than normal, if that's possible." "Oh do shut up. Speak." "Demand." Said Lily, her arms sliding around his torso, pressing her body into his. "We'll answer." Said Violet, coming up from behind, pressing kisses into his neck. "Stop it… I came seeking your prophecies. Tell me, unknown power…" The girls dislodged themselves from him, smiling, and joined hands. James stood in the middle of the three, and raised his arms, a large, red cloud descending from the ceiling, the light bulb flickering. A loud, ghostly voice cried out, and Brock, standing proud and strong, wielding a gun stood before them. "Gary! Gary, master of the leagues! Beware Brock, leader of Pewter!" the voice declared, and as quickly as he'd appeared, Brock's silent, dark form sucked back up into the red cloud, swirling around the room, knocking over with its cold room the bottles and jars or props. "Gary of Pallet! Be bloody, bold and resolute, for none of woman borne shall harm thee!" the voice screamed again, the image of a woman, pale, beautiful but ultimately dead flashing in front of him, her hair plastered to her lifeless skin. He closed his eyes, and crossed his fingers. "Have you nothing else for me?" he cried defiantly, James walking up behind him. "Have nothing to fear, Gary of Pallet, until great Pewter Quarries unto Oak Hill come upon thee." The voice finished, and the red clouds grew, brewing into a storm. He turned to find James, his face not his but that of Tracey's, a bloodied crown on top of his head. He turned around, only to appear with Brock's face, the crown now on his head, but not bloody like it was on Tracey's. Gary threw his hands at James, only for the apparition to disperse, the clouds to vaporise and the witches to go. When he woke up, he found himself alone in the dressing room, Spielbunk poking at him with his gold-topped cane. "Ughhhh… bad enchilada. What happened?" "No idea… you all right? Don't want my star actor to get sick at last minute." "Mr Spielbunk, where is Brock at the moment?" "In Cerulean City, having his costume measured up… why, is there something wrong? I have to lock up now." "No… nothing wrong." He hoisted himself to his feet, and walked outside. A new morning had broken, the sun glaring hotly upon him, his suit now dishevelled. He blinked through the light, and sat down upon the kerb, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He'd bought them quite a while ago, and though hadn't had the courage before to light one, he'd already put one in his mouth, striking a match against the asphalt. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** Flint awoke, the soft slamming of a door startling him slightly. He attended, and heard nothing more, settling back down into his bed, though sleep eluded him. He rubbed the warm patch of mattress beside him, thankful of its heat after many lonely years of cold. She was not where she should have been, though her presence was enough to sustain him. "Father?" A young boy stood at the door. He looked over in the dark, to see his youngest son. "When's Brock coming home?" He beckoned to the child to come over to the bed, and he did, taking a seat beside his father. "He promised to visit us when his new play's finished. He's in MacBeth, you know." "What's that?" "It's about a jealous young king who kills people so he can stay powerful." "That's not very nice, is it? Is he the king?" He chuckled deeply, running his hands through the boy's hair. "No - he's the knight who is out to stop the king from destroying the country." "Oh." Flint patted him on the back. "Come on, you can sleep in here. I don't know where Jesse got to." *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** "Father?" He opened his eyes again, the room still in darkness. His son was kneeling over him, the mattress slick and wet. "Oh, no, what have you done now?" He snapped the bedside lamp on, to find his son stabbed, his tiny chest bleeding profusely, his little head swaying from the loss of blood. "She has killed me, father." The child dropped into his lap. His face aghast, he held the child to him waiting until the little form had grown cold. Tears streaming down his cheeks, and goose pimples creeping up his spine, he slid out of bed, inching towards the door. Into the next room - the room of his eldest daughter. Empty. The next room - bed turned up, and empty. It was the same for every room, and as he approached the final room, that of the young son, he almost knew what he'd see. And that dream came true, as he fell to the ground vomiting, the lifeless bodies of eight of his children strewn across the floor; some in piles, some hanging from hooks on the walls. The footsteps behind him startled him into reality, and he turned to face naked Jesse and the barrel of a shiny pistol. He closed his eyes, and waited for the bang. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** A young woman, not unlike Delia, answered the door chirpily. "Hi there, sonny! How can I help you?" "Please… I must see Ritchie." She led him inside. "I'll be honest with you… I don't think he wants visitors." "I must speak to him - it's a matter of lives." She nodded, and gestured to his bedroom door. "What did you say your name was?" "Brock. Pewter City Gymleader." He opened the door, and stepped inside. The room was empty, the closet door swaying slightly. Pulling it open, he found Ritchie cowering inside. "Please… I didn't do it… I didn't kill him…" He offered his hand to the younger boy, pulling him out into the room. "I know you didn't. I need your help." "For what cost?" "To get you your rightful role of MacBeth. Gary Oak took it upon himself to play him after you went, and I know he killed to get there." Ritchie raised an eyebrow; his face was dirty and swollen from crying, and his clothes smelled slightly from not being washed. "Why does it matter to you?" "My best friend is dead. My other friend has turned into someone like him, and another man, who I don't know well has disappeared. I don't think he's living it up either. I hate him for his arrogance, and I want him brought down and treated how he deserves. Help me find the truth." He offered his hand once again, and Ritchie accepted it, shaking vigorously. "I know your innocence - now is the time to prove your other virtues." Ritchie led him out of the room, and into the kitchen, the small television blaring almost silently. Brock took a set at the table, and Ritchie set to work pouring glasses of water out for them. "I hope you know what you're doing… Gary Oak is a very powerful guy… he's the Indigo Master, and I hear now that he's Cinnabar Gymleader. Not to mention his family… if you ask me, that kid's had a couple of run-ins with a silver spoon, if you know what I mean…" Brock ignored him, his face set to the television. A photo of his entire family was projected in a news bulletin. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** The grief of the previous days had taken their toll on Delia, the once bright and sparkling young woman now tired, showing years that hadn't yet visited her. Her head thudded against the table, and she snapped alert. She couldn't go on like this. She needed to busy herself. She pulled herself to a stand, and set off, on a laundry hunt. She passed through the bathroom, scooping up her guest's clothing, piling them into her arms. She stopped outside the guestroom, the door closed, Misty probably asleep. And then she stopped outside her Ash's room, the door closed, nails set into the frame to prevent it from being opened. She couldn't cry - she had nothing left to cry. But the sounds of sobbing still emanated, and she pricked her ears, watching out for the source. The guest room. Slowly, she pulled the door open a crack. From her partial view, she saw Misty, seated naked at the end of the bed, cradling a hat to her chest. Her son's hat. She walked in, standing in front of the girl, who paid no regards to the intruder. She bent down, running her hand against her cheek. "Misty dear… what's this on your cheek? Are you all right?" "What's on my cheek?" "A spot… a little red spot." Misty rose silently, moving slowly to the mirror, staring at the tiny speck on her left cheek. Her face grew red, her eyes welling with tears, and her hand lashed out, striking the mirror into a thousand shards. "Out damned spot, out I say!" she sank to the counter of the dresser, her arms digging into the broken glass. "A leader and a feared? Who'd have thought that little boy would have so much blood in him?" "Misty, are you all right? Please, talk to me Misty." "The Thane of Fife, had a wife? Where is she now? Will these hands never be clean? No more of that, oh lord, no more of that - you mar all with this starting!" "Stop it, or I'll have to call a doctor, you're not well, you're distressed about Ash too!" She picked up Delia's hand, bringing it to her nose, sniffing it still. "Here's the smell of blood still - all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!" she stood, walking to the door, and pulling her dressing gown on over herself. She latched onto Delia. "Look not so pale - Tracey is dead and buried, he cannot come out of his grave. To bed, to bed - there's knocking at the door…. What has been done cannot be undone…" She stumbled out of the room, out of the house. Delia stared out after her, the tears that wouldn't come when she looked at her son's room returning with a vengeance. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** He paced up and down the stage, the actors beside him watching as he manically read his lines, spit occasionally flying out of the sides of his mouth. "Fear not, MacBeth, for no man borne of woman can harm thee; then fly, false thanes, and mingle with the English epicures: the mind I sway by and the heart I bear shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear!" Gary dropped the script, wiping the frenzied sweat off his forehead. Spielbunk applauded strongly. "Brilliant, simply BRILLIANT Master Oak! Why, you could easily be the next Olivier, or even Stallone!" Rubbing his eyes, Gary nodded in acceptance, and dropped the script to the ground. Striding backstage, he picked his bottle of water up, raising it to his lips. A hand reached out, grabbing the bottle, and started pouring the water over the other hand. Gary looked up into Misty's face, her eyes standing out red against her white skin. "What's your problem now?" She didn't answer him at first, staring down at the ground. A tear fell, and she wiped it away angrily. "I want to stop this now." She said matter-of-factly, not meeting his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, pardon? You want to stop what now?" "I'm quitting the play. I don't want to be Lady MacBeth anymore. He laughed quietly, looking down to the ground. "Why not?" "Because… I don't like what I've done. I want to go home to my sisters, or find Brock, or do something that gets me away from this and…" "Me? You want something that gets you away from me?" She burst into tears, clinging to the thick curtains. "I want to talk to Brock." "Well you CAN'T talk to him! He's left you, like all the others have left! All you have is me, so I suggest you shut up, put your fucking makeup on and haul ass onto stage. You got it, or do I have to organise for little accidents to happen to you too?" "No, no, stop it, don't say things like that!" "Oh, you were fine with me talking like that before, weren't you, dearest chuck? You make your fucking bed, you lie in it too, got it?" "No!" Walking off toward the fire exit, she was stopped as he grabbed at her arm. Pulling her in close to him, twisting her arm behind her back, he brought his teeth close to her ear, spit flying. "You go, I go to the police and tell them whose idea it was to kill Ash. And then I'll tell them all about how you hid the evidence, and how…" "Hid what?" she whispered, sobbing quietly. "The knife I used on Ash." "But I…" "But they'll think you did." "Where did…" "Ritchie's room. Where else?" Her breathing stopped, and she looked up at him. Backing towards the door, she pulled it open, nearly ripping it out of its frame, and ran outside, down the back alleyway behind the theatre and out onto the road. She didn't once turn back to see how far Gary was behind her, and didn't stop till she'd reached the park by the river, the bridge leading to the Oak property two hundred metres away. "Get back here, whore! Come back and fucking face it like a king would!" Gary screamed hoarsely, his heavy period cape pulling back at his shoulders. Pausing briefly to throw it off, he resumed running, chasing the girl with the long queen's nightgown, the thin straps slipping down offer her shoulders constantly. One hundred metres to the bridge. Fifty. Thirty. Ten. And without thinking, she veered to the right, bypassing the bridge and diving headfirst into the water. Gary dived in after her, grabbing at the cotton dress, and pulling on it until he came level to her. Pushing his weight down on her, he held her under the water, not stopping until she stopped struggling. He released her, relaxing and floating on his back in the water. Drifting silently toward the bridge, and only as he was metres away did he notice Brock standing, leaning on the railing and smiling. "You can't hurt me," Gary said, weakly laughing in triumph. "the sisters said that none from women-borne shall harm me." He drifted under the bridge, a broad smile on his lips. As he drifted out the other side of the bridge, he heard a loud cracking sound, somewhat muted by the water in his ears. The water around him turned red, and he let his hand fall down upon a bullet wound. Weakly, he looked back toward the bridge, Brock's smile as wide as his, a gun in his hand. He placed it onto the railing, and with a flick of his finger, it fell into the water, sinking below the surface like Gary was doing ever so slowly. "It's called a C-section, dead-shit." *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** She woke to the water lapping against her ankles, agitating the muddy bank. Lifting her head weakly, she saw a pair of muddied brown jeans, rolled up to show brown, muddy legs. A hand, the same colour as the legs was offered to her, and she accepted it, pulling herself shakily. "What happened here?" he asked, pulling his hand away from her. She bit her lower lip, the lipstick washed off, the mascara crawling down her cheeks, the hair plastered with mud to her neck and chest, the once-white dress a dirty brown. She latched herself onto him, her arms wrapping around his neck, not noticing that his arms were doing the same thing around her waist. *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** *********************************************************************************************************************************************************** The end, twenty-four pages, four hours, and 8,828 words later. How exciting.