Macbeth removed his blade. Okay, it was actually more like ripped it out of the guy’s chest, because the back hook on the upper blade had gotten stuck on a rib or something, but in the end he had his blade, and his life, and this other guy was dead. He examined the body. For some reason, he recognized this foe. His name had been Tybalt. The fiery Tybalt, actually. Tybalt of the House of Capulet.
How did he know that? No matter. There was probably more killing to do. I mean, there was always more killing to do. That was the thing with killing. It could be a full-time job if you let it. And Macbeth had tended to let it.
He heard a screaming coming from deep down a narrow pathway in the direction he had been going when Tybalt attempted his amateurish ambush. Macbeth recognized it at once. It was the Lady Macbeth. She sounded pissed. Granted, she always sounded pissed. It was kind of her thing.
He mulled his options. He was tired, and kind of horny (to be fair, he was always kind of horny), so she might be able to help him on at least one of those fronts. Sex in the forest might be kind of hot. But, she was the Lady Macbeth, after all. That meant she was probably going to nag him to death and challenge his manhood and basically tell him “that foe you felled gave not the fight you thought”, or some shit to take away this victory. Tybalt had been a pretty hardcore dude, and Macbeth still stuck him like a pig. Lady Macbeth was going to take that away. He just knew it.
Fuck that shit.
He ran off in the other direction.
Honestly, that was better than his first option of just jamming his blade in her throat.
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