Good morrow, everyone! As your new King, I, Malcolm, do vow henceforth to serve proud Scotland with a noble heart and to forgive you ingrates for calling me a parricide. (I’ll now be accepting bows and scrapes. Thank you.)
Let’s give a great huzzah to our champion, worthy Macduff, for ridding us of the tyrant for good! (You know who I’m talking about. I’m not wild about saying his name, for some reason.) Thank you, my friend. Sorry to hear about the whole “from your mother’s womb untimely ripp’d thing,” but let it be a reminder to us all about the importance of reproductive choice.
But sigh no more: our victory’s secure! No longer shall we toss and turn each night, hag-ridden with our cares. Though once the Royal Fraud did murder sleep, he now lies in pieces, so we may rest in peace. (Isn’t that good??? I spent most of the trip from England working on that line.)
Seriously — chill out, ye cream-faced loons. By mine ascent is Duncan’s line restored! Sure, I don’t have a wife or heirs, and, apparently, a bunch of ghost-kings announced they were going to crown my dead friend’s kid, but can we just table that for now? We don’t have to deal with a crisis of succession just yet — as long as no one slits my throat in my sleep tonight, amirite? Like that would happen twice!!! HA.
Still lily-livered, I see? Muttering that the Great Chain of Being’s out of joint? Becalm your tits, my subjects: that’s how it was yesterday. Today, no doubt what’s foul will be restored to fair. Birnam Wood will be growing back from stumps in no time. I grant, there’s been some pretty weird shit afoot. Rosse tells me that my father’s horses… ate each other? Like, ate each other? And “acted like they were at war with mankind”? I’ll be honest: I’m unprepared to deal with Horse War today. For now, let’s just agree to walk everywhere and to avoid feeding them apples by hand. See? Done!
It’s the ghosts, isn’t it? My sweet, jelly-hearted laggarts… Think not of ghosts who walk the earth with gory locks, tearing at the fabric of your faith! Perpend: the only person here who’s seen a ghost is currently a head atop a stick. And if the spirits could flit ‘cross the veil, would it be so terrible? Macduff could finally see the wife and kids!
Ohhh, it’s witches now. The witches three who haunt the moors and hold still untold sway o’er our affairs. I do confess: the witches are a downer. They seek only to injure us. They look like the inside of a haggis. And they feed on hate and chaos just for sport. Wring not your hands. Do you not see their pawn is DEAD? To corrupt another soul would take some time. (At least a week.) And if they replaced him, surely our eye for character’s improved? Look on the bright side: if free will’s a sham, we don’t have to change!
What, ho? You say you’ve stared too deep into the void, where darkness does the face of earth entomb, and see all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death, and that life is but a walking shadow — a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury, signifying nothing? Oh god. Oh dear. Would an earldom change that tune? Earldoms for everyone!!! Is it hot in here???
Can we please go back to looking at my shiny new crown and that deeply satisfying head kebab? He can’t hurt us anymore. MACBETH IS SLAIN. We’ll start repairing the damage tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.