8
Macbeth
Chicago, Illinois
Papa Midnightʼs
November 10th, 2014
Time: 3:30 AM
_____________________________
The night burned like a midnight cigarette.
And he liked the sting.
In the shrines of smoke, he walked with the dusk, the ding, the dang of Papa Midnightʼs little nightclub on the corner of patches of Indian grass and Afro-Latin weed. There was a somnolent buzz in the air, women curling into the nightclub like sorrowful lambs approaching butchery, and the club – the epitome of cigarettes, Mexican tequila, and ebony, Caribbean, beauties was perfumed with an odor that reeked as the dead did in the rotten, earthen tendrils of the ground.
Ex-lovers looked for their p*rn, addicts for their fix, eyes for their aesthetics, and the headiness of sweat and exhaust was as black as the night. He approached the door, languid in his strides, and she leaned against the trenches of the bitter door. Contused in vomit, in weak nails, in lascivious nudity of her figure.
The night burned like a midnight cigarette.
And in it, he heard snarling, hissing.
The creatures around him were parasitic, chimera as Marjorie described, with sharp, jagged teeth the size of knives with drool as acidic as bile. Around the edges of Papa Midnightʼs, they lurked. Gaping, seething, with skin crowned in brown blood and eyes decayed by sleeping in Hellʼs burning pit. With their tails, tipped with blades, slapping the innards of the little Chicagoan nightclub, they growled at him with an eagerness. They swallowed the walls, devoured the windows with insectile bodies and buzzing clicks of their tongue as bees would, and as they circled the nightclub like vultures, kissing the roof like lovers, Macbeth watched them mate. Reverently, cannibalistically.
Macbeth snarled with them.
᛫ ᚠᛁᛋᛏ ᛫ ᛒᚱᛁᛝ ᛫ ᛗᛁ ᛫ ᚧᚣ ᛫ ᚸᚣᚱᛚ᛫
Feast. Bring me the girl.
And they lunged.
As they filled the bar, their teeth split spines. Crushing bone. The brims of wine glass filled with copious blood as they stepped inside, and everyone that was singinʼ and dancinʼ and whininʼ in the Barbados fashion was screaminʼ and cryinʼ and prayinʼ as the chimeras ate their flesh. They hissed, they scratched, they clawed, they growled, and they fought him every step. Wanted blindly torn, aggressively ravaged, licentiously driven revenge. A lavish kind. An expensive kind. A kind that would take all his assets and all his glories and all his victories and mold the trophies into an iron hilt of a blade that would carve out the devil in him.
With their jagged teeth, they severed necks at the same time as they sunk into spleens, screeching as entrails splashed the walls. The horror, it was velvety, exploding in a thick sheen of guts and gore, and as the chimeras hissed, their heads shaking at a 360 degree angle, he listened to the witch-sensitive dogs singing to their wolves and the chimeras singing to the bone on the floor.
They drank.
In the blood, and the puke, and the remains. They courted each other with a queen beeʼs fervor, euphoric with ecstasy and delirious with bloodlust. One of the chimeras reached for a club goerʼs head in the haze of the chill-inducing shrieks of terror, and as they snapped the head backwards, the bone within the neck jerked outwards – blood spewing on Macbethʼs face. Appendages hit the floor where feet once did, and as blood splashed his face in sickly sweet rills with bile and shit browner and yellower by the moment. It was a bed of blood and bodily fluids, with breasts being torn off from chests.
She screamed.
She still wore that bohemian energy like a fleecy scarf, and it choked her when the chimeras fed. Forcing tears of molten hatred and bitter dreams to cake her face, the flowers and fauna that crowned her head feasted on her head, thorns stabbing her caramel curls, and Macbeth screamed too.
In delight, in savage pleasure, at the fear, at the fire of her spirit diminishing, at the terror that wracked her face, of the way she struggled against the chimera as its teeth sank into her neck. The adrenaline was a vice, and he smoked it as greedily as he would a Scottish narcotic. She bled into the night, Marcella did, the acid burning her skin until it bubbled with thick, purple craters, and as they snarled, Macbeth snarled with them. Guttural, fierce.
᛫ ᛋᚼᛂᛋ ᛫ ᚪᛚ ᛫ ᛃᚢᚱᛋ᛫
Sheʼs all yours.