Overture to MacBeth

On the eve of his wedding, somewhere in Forres, a small town on the coast of north-east Scotland, a twenty-one year old youthful-looking nobleman called Macbeth stepped gingerly into the lair of Pixie Gaia, the 'sister' of the three witches.

"Woman," Macbeth called the unyouthful-looking person reclining on the stone floor. A beam of moonlight shone teasingly from the high window. As expected, all creases and no baby fat at all on her face, she was withered and wild. "Where are you from?"

She made an effort to get up, but he gestured. "Fer goodness sicks, sit dine, stay dine."

"I was originally from Assloss," she said. "Then I moved to Ardfork. Last year, I dragged myself here to fulfill a prophecy."

He could smell bad attitude. "I dunn need the bloody biography." He groaned. "Innit true ye have magical powers?"

"Aye, but I don't need cryptic powers to see that you're scratching your groin. Is it infected, you know, when the skin beneath is boiling red and itchy?" She glanced at him, her face smug, as if saying Gotcha.

He instinctively moved his hands over his crotch area, as if she was shooting arrows at it. Now that she mentioned it, his inner thighs had been infernally itchy these few days, and it was too painful to sit. "Could this be what they called the Candida, or Chlamydia, or Canis vulgaris?"

"That's a dog, Sir."

"Pardon?"

"Canis Vulgaris is a dog. Are you saying your crotch smells like a dog? In that case, apply a smooth layer of the balm of the Tiger. Oriental concoction. Works every time. Just remember not to suck your finger after the job. Some people cannot help it, like when they lick the finger before flipping a book."

"I'm going to put you in a can."

"Halt. Sir," Pixie swept her wild frilly hair behind. "Why do you have a worried expression today?" she asked. "You should be over the moon—marrying your cousin, the lady of your dreams."

"The lady… you know… I'm getting worried… on this wedding night." Macbeth swallowed. "I've some difficulty screwing my courage to the sticking place—"

"No kidding," Pixie half suppressed a smile. "You mean you're… impotent?"

"I… mean," Macbeth looked at her, incredulous, "Do you need me to spell it out? Or have you feel it?"

"Good thing you are not born of woman," Pixie said. "I have a potion to help you."

What the fuck? Macbeth was delivered by Caesarian section, so he wasn't born in the strict sense, but he hadn't heard anyone said it like that. Well, more important to survive the wedding night. Afterwards, he would string Pixie up like a Norweyan thief.

"Give it to me." Macbeth reached out his scrawny hand.

Blat. Blat.

What's that sound?

"Follow me." Pixie moseyed away to a door in the corner.

He rubbed his eyes. What? Are those four-inched heels she is wearing?

Shaking his head, Macbeth trailed her steps. In the adjoining room, a huge pot was suspended over burning logs.

So that's the source of the bubbling sound.

"The potion is not yet ready. First, I'll need some ingredients. We need to throw three things into the boiling cauldron."

Riddles again. What a saucy and over-bold fellow.

"Fair is foul and foul is fair." She chanted and mumbled. "Extra virgin oil..."

Check.

"The tongue of an animal with four stomachs..."

Easy peasy. A cow. Check.

"Undies from—"

"—Let me stop you there." He grinned. "You know very well that Scotsmen don't wear anything under the kilt? Because undies raise the temperature of the balls and that's not healthy, and could also give them groin eczema."

"Wouldn't they freeze to death?"

"Nah. The cold will pass through anything we wear. They'll just drink themselves to death."

For a long, woeful time, these two watched the flames under the cauldron, holding their tongues.

Blat. Blat.

She jutted her hip out. As if saying laalalalaaala. "This potion will only work if you do one of two things."

Frisky farts. Another surprise.

"Just tell me. Anything to please milady, she will be Lady Macbeth after tonight."

"You need to either bite off one of your nipples, or unsex the lady."

"Merciful Powers." Macbeth blinked away his tears of disbelief. "My brain is heat-oppressed—"

"That cannot be, Sir. Your brain, like that of any decent Scotman, is well cushioned within the confines of the bony skull, and because of the circulating cerebrospinal fluid that drains away the heat, the temperature of the brain should be rather constant—"

"Stop yakking like my grandmother!"

"Your grandmother, Sir, happened to be one of the least talkative woman in the whole of Nairn, and Fife. In fact, her voice was like that of a spent swimmer that clings to—"

"Nevermind! Assuming I want to do what you said, how can… how can my mouth even… without the pendulous breasts of a witch, suckle my own… ?" Macbeth stared at Pixie. "It is anatomically impossible."

"Of course. You have a twisted mind, Sir. There is always the servant, sir, that's what he is for."

That was the reeeeeeeaal deeeeal.

"You mean... I ought to tell Alfred Jeeves, the little man, this evening: close the window tight, and lock the front door. Oh, by the way, just before you snuff out the candles, stand on this wooden crate so that your head reaches the level of my chest, then unbutton my shirt. Be gentle and surround your loosened teeth around my left tit…"

"That's precisely my suggestion, Sir. You put it well. Very colorful, I couldn't have described it better."

The tears overflowed from Macbeth's eyes. Ew. That does it. That's going to change the relationship between me and my servant forever. Every time evening arrives, this image of Alfred will dangle in my mind, reminding me of his mammary inclinations.

"Man, you are so cursed," Pixie said. "Whenever you look up at the northern sky, you will see only the Areola borealis."

Macbeth's shoulder slumped. His mind drifted farther and farther away. Then he shook himself from this cosmic insult. "Just give me the potion."

She poured him a little into a silver vial that looked like something between a battle helmet and a urinal. "Take care with the potion, will you? There aren't any instruction leaflets. But if you need help, go to the three witches in the cave. They look old and wretched like me, but I swear they're my faithful students." Before Macbeth could say anything, she added, "I know you've lost the will to live." She made air quotes with her fingers when she said 'will to live,' then she continued, "Take heart. At least you get to enjoy the wedding night. Don't ask again, cos I'm on HRT and now having the period. Off you go."

As Macbeth turned to leave, he couldn't help thinking about her foul-smelling mouth. Anyway, hope the potion works.

Okay. So Macbeth wouldn't have anything on his chest bitten off, by anyone or anything. This meant, in order to consummate his marriage with his cousin, he would need to unsex her—she would be drained of all gentleness, persuade Macbeth to murder the King, and would be totally doomed.

But then, you should know that tragic story already.