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Macbeth
Chicago, Illinois
Frankʼs Slaughterhouse
October 31st, 2014
Time: 4:00 AM
_____________________________
Bloodbloodbloodblood–
When shall we meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Carcasses streaked the floor, and so did the butchers as Eminemʼs Psychopath Killer blared through some Chicago wannabe thug's cracked iPod. Macbethʼs teeth were in tow, and as his teeth sliced into the flesh, he smelled blood. Metallic, electrifying, juicy, copious and rich blood. It dripped from his chin in rivulets and thick rivers pooling around his canine teeth and matting his hair: short, cropped, shaggy locks bleached crimson like liquid gold. The flesh was as divine as the music he heard, the whispery voices, and as he listened, he grew...hungrier.
When the hurlyburlyʼs done; when the battleʼs lost and won.
He liked the eyes the best; Macbeth did.
The cow and human eyes, murky with the blood.
As he fed, gnawing on the scratched cataracts of the supple, succulent cows that were scattered on the floor – with good olʼ Frank of course – the edge of his sharpened teeth slid against the torn sockets, clawing at the arteries and veins and feeling the rolls of the muscle work against his jaw. The socketʼs bone gleamed in the moonlight, and as Macbeth ate, his eyes grew darker. Blacker, colder.
Their limbs were crippled, bent, broken; flesh clinging onto the skin as Macbeth tore. R -i-ipped. Shredding, clawing, tearing at the red meat; stacking them next to each other, slamming the slabs of meat from the hinges. The rancid taste of bile and blood swarmed his mouth, making his throat tighten and the veins that wrapped around his sickly flesh simply squeezed. Crimson like silk donning his body, and like wine that spilled on the t-shirt heʼd stolen from Frank.
That will be ere, the set of the sun. Where the place?
Bloodbloodbloodblood–
He traced demonic sigils in Frankʼs blood until the floor was blackened by it. The symbol of the Destroyer was stark against the ground; the infinity sign smacked with an inverted cross. Blair-Wicker witch donned the skies, twirling and singing like a dream catcher, and the scars – they screamed against his skin. Kneeling on the ground, browner than the cowʼs sh*t that littered the floors, blood streaking his back, his fingers pressed into the floor; his arms and biceps crying out in pain, incineration marks and third degree burns decorating his arms in white, white, white.
Upon the heath. There to meet with Macbeth, the voices whispered.
And they snapped.
They hissed.
They growled.
Fair is foul and foul is fair.
As the earth sunk a level lower, and the Destroyer glowed; the symbol swallowing the earth in a satanic battle cry. Consuming Frankʼs body, thorns from roots underneath the ground melting into his skin, blood splashing the windows in: Picasso arcs, Mervyn Peake arcs, holy arcs, and spattering his salt-filled ribs all over the floor and impaling his body.
"Welcome to the Slaughterhouse."
Hover through the fog and filthy air.