"Banquo, Macdonald has been vanquished!"
"Fantastic." Rubbing my eyes, I was vaguely aware of the soldiers strewn on the ground around me, and the weight of a sword in my hand. I took a few deep breaths to reorientate myself. I felt a little hungover, to be honest.
"Yet so foul and fair a day I have not seen." Macbeth, carefully closed the eyelids of one particular soldier lying motionless on the ground beside us in a pool of blood.
My good, miserable cousin Macbeth. I will save you, Duncan, and all of Scotland.
Come to think of it, the witches should be appearing soon. Would they know what had transpired in my previous life?
Like clockwork, they appeared to us on the battlefield in their full hideous glory of gleaming red eyes, choppy fingers and awful green beards.
I tried to speak, but my tongue felt like stone. Playing cheap tricks, those damn hags.
"Speak if you can: what are you?" thundered Macbeth.
The best I could do was jab his ribs and go "MMMRGHHHHHH–", meaning "Shut up and let's get out of here!"
I would describe what had occurred after that, but given that everything else ran like how it had in my first life, it seems a little pointless. Except that the witches seemed terribly entertained by my inability for speech. Curse them.
After they had departed in a flurry of thunder and lightning, I turned sharply to Macbeth, tongue fully restored. "You better not be thinking of anything funny. Like, uh, regicide (God save the king). You know that's bad, right?"
"Huh?" Macbeth looked startled as a pigeon shot mid-flight by an air-rifle.
"Scrap all those evil prophecies delivered from your mind. Even if you become Thane of Cawdor."
Of course, Macbeth was all too shocked when Ross delivered the news of his promotion to Thane of Cawdor.
Let us move on to the fateful night of Macbeth's awful slumber party.