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Thread: The Tale of Mr. Mac

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    The Tale of Mr. Mac

    The Tale of Mr. Mac
    Part One.


    “Funny fing, Life, when you fink abaht it…”
    “Yeah. Bloody hilarious.”
    “Bloody awful.”
    “Well, you got to laugh, ‘ey?”
    “It makes you fink, dunnit?”
    “Well, this is it, innit?”
    “Yeah…”
    It was a brief conversation conducted by three distinct voices. However, they were the kind of voices associated with unpleasant people; the kind of people who did unspeakable things in rain-washed, dimly-lit alleyways at dead of night. It was the dead of night. It was raining, and the darkness emanated from an alley so gloomy it seemed to suck what light there was right out of the night. They were alien voices, out of place here, for they evoked the less savoury and more overtly criminal, environs of London’s East End. But this was Glasgow. If encountered by a numerically superior group of locals, the owners of such voices would not have been made welcome. One could tell that something nasty was going to happen to somebody.
    Quite soon.
    Probably.
    The only sound was the gentle hiss of the falling rain against the cobbles mixed with the gurgle of an overflowing drain, as its contents ran down the gutter in a noisome rivulet. After a while there was a rustling and a little rattle. A match flared, briefly illuminating a fragment of unsympathetic countenance from behind the silhouette of a cupped hand. The light died as suddenly as it was struck, to be replaced by the lurid, orange, glow of a burning cigarette end in the darkness.
    “You didn’t ought to’ve done that, ’Arry…”
    “We’ve a couple of minutes yet.”
    “Have we?”
    “Yeah.”
    After a while, a tiny, glowing star fell four feet and vanished with a sizzle. A sodden dog-end, carried by a surge from the spontaneous breaching of a dam of detritus in the gutter, swept out of the alley, and was deposited at the corner of the pavement.
    Some way up the main street a man emerged from a doorway. He paused on the step to pull up the collar of his raincoat and pull the brim of his hat a little lower over his eyes. He stepped down onto the pavement, turned to his left, and at an easy pace, strolled in the direction of the alley. Deep within its gloomy maw, an observer, possessed of enhanced or supernatural senses, might have detected a heightening of expectation, a suggestion of movement. As the man drew level with the entrance, his progress was checked abruptly, by the sudden and disconcerting emergence of its denizens. Swiftly and professionally, they contrived to surround him in a triumvirate of near infinite menace. Understandably taken aback, the man attempted to take a half step backwards whilst his right hand instinctively reached inside his raincoat. However, a disquieting sensation of sharpness in the region of his kidneys demanded an urgent rethink of his available options.
    Motionless, the man regarded his primary assailant through narrowed eyes. The object of his scrutiny casually closed the distance between them. He looked up into the steely gaze and smiled, revealing the rotting stumps of what might once have been teeth.
    “Evening,” he said, “You’ll be Mister Mac, I’m thinkin’.”
    “Who’s he?” said the man.
    “He’s him as could be so much more…” The reply came with unwelcome intimacy from behind his ear on a gust of fetid breath.
    “He’s him as could be so much more than just another man’s right hand…”, the third assailant’s voice was squeaky, betraying less than a hint of sanity and more than a touch of madness.
    “’E’s ’im as could be the brain behind the ’and, says I,” purred the first.
    “Him as should be the brain behind the hand,” whispered the second.
    “Him as will be the brain behind the hand,” wheezed the third through a bubbling, phlegmy, snigger.
    “So is you ’im or not? C’mon now, we ain’t got all night.” said the man with rotten teeth.
    “All right, I is, I mean I am,” said Mr. Mac. “So who are you and what do you want?”
    “Well now, as for ’oo we is, you might call us your fairy godfavers,” said bad teeth, with a repellent grin.
    “And as for what we want, well, we wants to ‘elp you,” said bad breath from a position entirely too close for comfort.
    “But first,” wheezed the third, “You’ve got to cross our palms with silver, see. It’s part of the arrangement.”
    “No ’Arry, not silver. Silver ain’t no good no more, I can’t bite it see, on account of me teef.”
    “Paper’s fine…” said bad breath.
    “We likes to hear it rustle,” wheezed Harry.
    “So if you’d be so good as to reach carefully into your wallet and extract a generous gratuity, we can get on wiv business and you can get on wiv hearin’ somefin’ to your advantage. Savvy?”
    Intrigued, Mr Mac reached into his coat and extracted his wallet, from which he removed a wad of cash. He handed it to the man in front of him.
    “Corr!” said bad breath. Harry hissed appreciatively.
    “Very generous, very generous indeed,” said bad teeth, as he squirreled the bounty away about his person.
    “So, what good, exactly, has my generosity done me, gentlemen?” asked Mr. Mac.
    “Gentlemen, ’e calls us. D’you ’ear that ’Arry? Gentlemen! Didn’t I say? Generous and courteous is Mr. Mac. A man to be reckoned wiv. A man as we can do business wiv. A man, I says, ’oo deserves of our best. Oh yes. Well now, Mr. Mac, me finks I am a prophet new inspired, so to speak. It seems as ’ow you might be expectin’ a visitor tonight. A Man, as you might say, to be reckoned wiv, much like your good self. A Man as knows ’ow to run fings, if you get my drift. A man ’oo might be celebratin’ ’is good fortune, fanks, in no small part, to the doin’s of a Man like your good self on ’is be’alf.
    ‘Such a Man as this First man, might feel so secure in the company of this Second man, that ’e might let down ’is guard. ’E might let down ’is guard to such an extent that the Second man might find hisself in a position to take advantage. This Second man might then contrive, by whatever means ’e might fink fit, to so look after the First man, that the First man need never have no concerns about nuffin’, ever again.
    ‘Then, as it might be, that Second man, a good man, a man such as might be yourself, might find that ’e became the First man. So when, as it might happen, Mr. Dunnykin calls around for dinner tonight, Mr Mac might consider his options… Know what I mean?
    ‘Now I can’t say no more, but if, as it might be, you didn’t feel as though fings as I’ve described them, might seem a good idea, then I will just suggest that when you gets ’ome tonight, you might consider runnin’ the idea past your wife. See what she finks, as it were. Now, I and my companions ’as done, what we might call, our duty by you. We feel, as what might be, a desire to be elsewhere. You know ’ow it is… People to see, places to go… So we’ll be takin’ our leave of you, for now, as it were.”
    The three men slipped into the alley and were swallowed by the gloom. A voice echoed out of the darkness accompanied by a hideous bubbling snigger.
    “Good night, Sweet prince…”
    Mr. Mac, alone once more in the darkness, stared into the empty blackness of the alley. Foolish as it might have seemed to remain in such a place at such a time, he nevertheless felt himself unwilling, or unable to move. He replayed the encounter in his head and pondered on what he had been told. Perhaps unwisely for a man in his position and line of work, he began to have ideas about the future course of his life. Ambition, a dangerous indulgence for an employee of Mr. Dunnykin’s, stirred in a hitherto unused corner of his mind.
    The trouble was planning.
    Ambition required lots of planning. It was not something he was good at. Up to now he’d left all the planning to Mr. Dunnykin. Mr. Dunnykin was good at planning. He’d made it his business to be good at it. Mr. Mac, on the other hand, was good at doing what he was told. Mr. Dunnykin told him where to go, when to go there and who to whack. Whacking people was not a problem for Mr Mac. It was what he was good at. He enjoyed it. It didn’t require much imagination. So, with Mr. Dunnykin to hand, Mr. Mac had no moral scruples about taking advantage of the situation and whacking him. The problem was getting away with it. It all came back to the planning.
    And then there was the problem of Mr. Banquet.
    Mr. Banquet was his friend. He was in the slot below Mr. Mac. The trouble was that Mr. Banquet was not stupid. If Mr. Banquet got wind of what was going on he would expect a slice of the pie. Mr. Banquet would want the No. 2 slot if Mr. Mac moved up to No. 1. With Mr. Banquet in the No. 2 slot, and, not being stupid, knew how easy it was to take the No. 1 slot… Well: Even with the limited imagination at his disposal, Mr. Mac could recognise a pattern when he saw one. Mr. Banquet was definitely a problem.
    Perhaps the parting advice of the weird brethren was worth a shot. When he got home he would run the conundrum past his wife. She was smart. She didn’t say much, but when she did it was always on the money. Mr. Mac smiled to himself, and with renewed purpose, resumed his homeward journey in the dark.

    Mrs. Mac was in the dining room pouring her self a scotch when she heard her husband’s key in the door. She poured another and turned to greet him as he came in from the hall.
    “D’you do the malchy on Gordon?” she asked, handing him his drink. He took it and nodded.
    “No worries on that score, Hen.” He sipped his drink.
    “So how’d it go?”
    “Oh, fine, fine. No’a problem.”
    Mrs. Mac was not convinced by this reply. She gave her husband an appraising stare and saw that he had something on his mind. “So what’s botherin’ you man? Ye’ve the look about you of a man who canna do his sums.”
    “That’s no surprisin’, woman, for it does’ne add up.”
    “Then ye’d best trust te a little o’ my accountancy, big man. See if I canna clear ye’re heed.”
    He nodded and settled down in his favourite chair. His wife perched herself on the arm and listened attentively as Mr. Mac related his strange tale. When he had finished Mrs. Mac subjected her husband to a hard and unfriendly stare.
    “If this is just some tall tale te try te explain te me why ye allowed ye’sen te be rolled by a wee prile o’ gnarley-men, it’ll go hard wi ye, big man. I’ll kill ye ma’sen! And Sassenachs… Oh, the shame o’ it!”
    “I swear te ye, hen, they were wierdin’ men wi’ the sight, be they Sassenachs or no,” protested her husband.
    “We’ll know soon enough. If the Man comes tonight, I’ll ken what te do!”
    It was then that the telephone rang. They both stared at it stupidly for a moment whilst it continued to ring. Mrs. Mac was the first to recover.
    “Are ye goin’ te answer that?”
    With a quick glance at his wife he picked up the receiver.
    “Mac,” he said.
    “Is that yourself, big man?” said the voice on the phone. “You’ll know who this is, I’m thinkin’.”
    ‘It’s Him’, Mr. Mac pantomimed to his wife.
    “I’m very pleased with the way you handled the Gordon situation,” continued the man on the phone. “It doesn’t pay to let things slide. I’ve a mind to pay you a visit, so as we can talk. I was thinking tonight would be fine.”
    “It would, Mr. D. It’d be an Honour.”
    “You’re a smart man, Mac. A man on his way up. I’ll see you at ten.” He hung up.
    Mr. Mac stared at the phone and then stared at his wife while the buzz of the empty line sang a descant to his racing thoughts. Carefully, he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
    “He’ll be here at ten,” he said.
    “He’ll no be alone. Who’ll be wi’m?”
    “He never goes anywhere wi’out the twins: Banquet’ll come, just for the leavin’s. Then there’ll be Wee Duffy, me’be two or three gofers an’ a heavy.”
    “Then I’d better do fe twelve - I’ve seen Banquet eat.”
    “Aye, Hen, Banquet by name an’ nature both. The man’s a taste for greed.”
    “It’ll be his undoin’. But that’s for later. Tonight we’ve bigger fish te fry. This is what ye’ll do…”

    The mantle clock was just striking ten as a sleek, black limousine drew up outside the imposing portico Mr. Mac’s suburban villa, ‘Dunsinnin’. Mr. Dunnykin’s well-drilled bodyguards were the first to emerge. Alert, eyes scanning the street, they covered the walk to Mr. Mac’s front door. On the other side of the car, a pair of enormous heavies covered the blind side. As the front door opened, Mr. Dunnykin, escorted by the twins and trailed by Banquet, came forth and processed unhurriedly into the welcoming hall. Mr. Mac greeted his guests and led them into his parlour. The escorts followed.
    “Will you have a dram, gentlemen?” Enquired Mr. Mac of the assembly. Every eye of the entourage swivelled to take their lead from Mr. Dunnykin. The man’s hardened countenance was slowly softened by a reptilian smile.
    “Why not? After all, we’re celebrating, aren’t we gentlemen?”
    With these words everyone visibly relaxed, for Mr. Dunnykin was notoriously cagey and mercurial of temper. The entire assembly might just as easily have been descending on their host to slaughter him and his entire household as to have dinner. It also had to have been on their minds that Mr. Mac was the kind of man who was particularly gifted in the arts of destruction. Having been Mr. Dunnykin’s primary instrument of retribution for many years, he would almost certainly have resisted any attempt at liquidation with considerable vigour. If things had been going to get nasty, they would have got very nasty indeed. Instead, it looked as though they were going to have a good time.
    Gold splashed in crystal, generously poured and eagerly consumed by cheerful men who grew more cheerful with every sip.
    Mr. Dunnykin savoured his scotch and fixed his host with a steely eye. “So, Mac, where’s that carlin wench you married, eh? She should be here to share the moment.”
    Mr. Mac had to shout above the rising din of drinking Scotsmen for his reply to be audible.
    “She’s away in the kitchen preparing a board fit for a king!” This announcement was greeted with a general roar of approval from the assembly. “She’ll no be long though. She’s but to set the table and we can eat.”
    There was another appreciative roar.
    “That’s good Mac. Then I’ll save what I have to say for the feast.”
    Mrs. Mac could not have chosen her moment better. Flinging open the connecting doors, she stood, framed between them, before a table groaning under the weight of food, drink, crystal and silver. The room was bathed in candlelight while a roaring fire in the grate painted shadows with a flickering orange glow. Her gown sparkled with every movement of the delicious curves beneath. The room fell silent and as one man, they gasped.
    “Are ye hungry, gentlemen?” She asked.
    “Aye!” chorused every man present.
    “Then take a seat and have your fill.” She stood aside as the cheering mob rushed the door and descended on the food.

    The meal was nearly over, its scattered remnants littering the table. Mr. Mac sat in his place at its head, an empty chair at his side marking his wife’s temporary departure to the kitchen. Facing him, Mr. Dunnykin sat hunched at the far end, complacent with indulgence, the drink making his hooded eyes and lizard smile more reptilian than ever. Only Banquet continued to indulge in solids. Having cleared his own plate twice over, he now importuned those fellow diners within range for their left-overs. Everyone else, with the exception of Mr. Mac (following the strict instructions of his wife) and Mr Dunnykin who was struggling against his nature in an effort to remain coherent until he had said what he had come to say, was engaged in the serious process of emptying and refilling their glasses. The brief intervals between the draining and recharging of the cup were punctuated with snatches of song, loud cheers and intimate, maundering reflections upon the state of life, the world and business between old friends.
    The Twins, white hair in disarray, colourless albino eyes dim with alcohol and unfocused memory, chuckled together as they companionably shared the blurred reminiscences of old murders. Mr. Mac watched them over the brim of his glass with narrowed eyes and reflected that he had never liked them much. They had always given him the creeps. He smiled and his eyes flicked over the crowd. There was Wee Duffy glassy-eyed and smiling. Doubtless he was thinking about his wife and son, the soppy sod. He’d have to be careful there, the man had a small but loyal following. The heavies and the gofers were nothing; just helots to do as they were told, they didn’t care where the orders came from. No. the only ones he needed to worry about were Wee Duffy and Banquet. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself,’ he thought as he caught Mr. Dunnykin’s eye. ‘I’m no’ The Man yet.’
    Mrs. Mac returned to the dining-room to the rousing accompaniment of cheers and wolf-whistles, carrying a laden tray of spirituous liquor. She distributed the bottles and then resumed her place at her husband’s side. Mr. Dunnykin gathered his energies and slapped on the table-top until the noise subsided. With an effort he hauled himself to his feet and contrived to wedge himself upright by leaning against the table. For a moment, this heroic endeavour seemed to have exhausted him and he wobbled, silently regarding the expectant, upturned, sweaty faces of the diners as he marshalled the thoughts in his drink-befuddled brain. At last he spoke.
    “Gen’lemen… I’m sure I speak for all o’ us when I thank our host an’ his lady for their gen’rous hospital’ty this evening:-” The room erupted with a roar of approval from the parliament of crooks accompanied by the pounding of hands upon the table. Eventually Mr. Dunnykin succeeded in waving them into silence. He continued.
    “We all know the sterling service Mr. Mac has put in on behalf of Dunnykin’s Dunkin’ Doughnuts over the years…” There was another chorus of assent from the assembly.
    “And we all know that he’s been a’ the sharp end o’ the cut an’ thrust of competitive bakin’ in this town fo’ as long as any o’ us can remember…” This time there was laughter.
    “An’ probably it’s only the people in this room that’re left to know jes how competitive an’ how sharp that business has been!”
    More laughter.
    “An’ so, Mac, it’s all thanks to you that now there’s no more competition!” More cheers and laughter, “Poor Gordon!” The banging and stamping gradually subsided. “Setch loyalty, Gen’lemen, setch devotion to me an’ mine, is deserving of recognition!” There were general cries of ‘Hear, hear!’
    Mr. Mac waved a deprecating hand in the face of the general acclaim. “No, no, Mr. D… I’m jes’ one o’ your boys, one man in the team.”
    “Nonsense, Man… Ye may be a team player, but you’re my star centre- forward! My best Striker! My swift sword o’ retribution. So how can I show my appreciation of all that you mean to us? You’ve a fine house, a fine wife, you’ve all that a man might want! How do I thank the man who has everything, eh…?”
    The hoods were all chanting, “How?, How? How?”
    “I’m giving you Gordon’s turf, Big Man!” Mr. Dunnykin stuffed his cigar between his teeth and grinning at his host, slowly toppled back into his chair. He gazed at Mr. Mac with lazy, indulgent eyes while the men chanted, “Mac! Mac! Mac!”
    “Speech, Speech!” sprayed Banquet through a mouthful of food. The cry was taken up by the others until, urged by his wife, Mr. Mac got to his feet.
    “Mr. D… My old friend, Mr. Banquet…, Wee Duffy…. The Twins, there... Friends and colleagues all… What can I say? It’s an honour to have you as my guests, to share this moment and partake of my wife’s fine cookin’ in such august and convivial company!”
    “Hear, Hear!”
    “You all know me. I’m no’ an ambitious man. I’ve never sought preferment over wiser, more talented men. I’m just a craftsman who sought to find a place where those skills I have would be needed and appreciated. That need and appreciation is reward enough for a man like me.”
    Mr. Dunnykin narrowed his eyes and the smile on his face hardened a little as he regarded the speaker, while around him, the men’s hands drummed on the table.
    “But I’m no’ an ungrateful man,” continued Mr. Mac with an ingenuous smile. “Who would be so churlish as to reject an honest token of appreciation offered by so wise and generous a man as Mr. Dunnykin and I thank him fo’it with all due and proper humility, and I hope to continue to serve him, and you other gentlemen, long into the future. Your heath Mr. D... Slange!” He raised his glass and then sat down.
    Mr. Dunnykin’s countenance softened and he nodded to himself at the due and proper response, while around him the table erupted into cheering.
    Mrs. Mac stood up and resting one hand on her husband’s shoulder picked up a spoon with the other and tapped a glass. After a while the crowd became aware of it and calmed down.
    “Gentlemen!” she said, “ It’s late an’ it’s been a long night wi’ much good cheer enjoyed by all. Now me and my man’ve a mind te retire…”
    At this there was a collective murmur and a burst of lecherous laughter from the table.
    “…but we’d no expect ye all te have te make off as ye are. So we’ve prepared rooms fo’ ye here. Ye can all sleep it off in comfort. Now, If Mr. Dunnykin an’ The Twins would com wi’ me I’ll see you settled. Mac’ll show the rest o’ ye to your rooms.”
    The Twins got unsteadily to their feet and helped Mr. Dunnykin to his. Amid expressions of thanks and good wishes for the night’s repose the party broke up and the company were shown to their beds.

    It was four o’ clock in the morning and Dunsinnin’ reverberated to the drunken snores of ten slumbering Scotsmen. The eleventh was not asleep, but stood, eyes bright in the darkness, outside a door. Behind it, Mr. Dunnykin and The Twins lay insensate in their beds. His trembling hand reached out and grasped the doorknob. Slowly he turned it and opened the door a crack and paused, putting first his ear and then his eye to the gap. Neither seeing nor hearing any untoward movement, he pushed the door open and slipped into the musty darkness, closing the door behind him. Mr. Mac took a moment to reorient himself in the gloom, then he silently made his way to the bed where The Twins were snoring. The house was full of murderers, but Mr. Mac was an artist. The two men asleep on the bed in front of him were butchers. They liked to kill messily, with bayonets. They always carried them, no matter where they were. Mr. Mac Knelt and groped around the floor by the bed until his hand closed on cold steel. Quietly, he padded around the bed and repeated the exercise. When he stood up he held a bayonet in each hand.

    Mr. Mac was roused from bloody dreams by a household in uproar. Banquet burst into his room wild eyed and shouting with Duffy hard on his heels.
    “Mac! Mac! They’ve done the Malcy on Dunnykin! He’s away in his room all bloody in his bed…”
    “Whisht Man! Hold your noise,” Mr. Mac exclaimed, grabbing his gun from beneath the pillow as he hastily untangled himself from the bedclothes. “Is the man in his senses, Duffy, or did he leave his wits in a bottle?” he asked as he pulled on his dressing-gown.
    “I canna speak for the whereabouts o’is wits but it’s true what he says. Mr. D’s murthered and it would seem to be The Twin’s doin’. The boys are holdin’ ’em”
    Mrs. Mac, roused by the initial furore, lay propped on her elbow veiling her modesty with a sheet and watching the scene with guarded eyes.
    “I canna believe it, man! It makes no sense,” said Mr. Mac.
    “You’d best see for your sen, man, then see what you believe,” said Banquet.
    “Show me,” said Mr. Mac.
    “I’m comin’ too,” said Mrs. Mac.
    “No dressed like that you’re not!” said her husband. “Dress ye’ sen and follow if you must, but we’ll no wait for you. Take me to ’em, Duffy, you too Banquet, an’ we’ll see what’s to be done.

    The room was a shambles. Torn and bloody, the body of the late Mr. Dunnykin, undisputed king of the Dunkin’ Doughnut trade in Glasgow, lay sprawled on his bed. His gaping wounds were a gory testament to the transience of his countenance. All trace of his menace and power were now gone from him in the carnage of his terrible end. Cold and clotting, his life’s blood stained the walls in great, splattering arcs. It collected in pools beneath his livid flesh and formed sticky puddles on the floor. It coated The Twins, who stood, under guard, trembling in their underwear, like a second skin. On the floor in front of them lay their weapons, eloquent, ruddy testaments to their crime.
    Mr. Mac looked upon the dreadful handiwork and with a hideous cry, raised his gun and shot each Twin in the centre of the face with terrible precision. They fell to the floor, their brains decorating the wall and their blood mingling with that of the late Mr. Dunnykin. He emerged, smoke curling from the barrel of his automatic, followed by the now redundant guards. Banquet and Wee Duffy stood back from the doorway and watched him as he walked stiffly back to his room, passing his wife without a word as she came running towards the sound of gunfire. She halted abruptly on the threshold momentarily speechless as she surveyed the horror within. Then she let out a terrible wail.
    “Oh my carpets! Oh My curtains! Will ye look at the mess! Who’d ‘ve thought the bastards could have so much blood in ’em! And the smell! Och, it’s awful!”
    “Should I call the police, Mrs. M?” asked Wee Duffy.
    “Or an ambulance?” asked Banquet.
    “Don’t be daft, ye pair o’ glimmerin’ ninnies that ye are! They’re beyond the services o’ any save a resurrectionist, an’ we hardly want te attract the attention o’ the police. Away wi’ ye and get some o’ the heavies to bag ’em up an’ throw ’em in the Clyde were they belong. Then strip the room, sluice it down, burn everything, an’ get me a decorator!” Muttering to herself, she spun on her heel, marched back along the landing and followed her husband into their bedroom, closing the door behind her.
    Wee Duffy and Banquet watched her retreating back in thoughtful silence, then turned to regard each other with cautious appraisal.
    “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” asked Duffey.
    “That would depend on what you’re thinkin’, I’m thinkin’”
    “I’m thinkin’ that the board has a vacancy in the chair…”
    “You’d also be thinkin’ that it’s likely Mr. Mac’ll park his arse on it, I’m thinkin’.”
    “I’m thinkin’ that the way things are at the moment, the board wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    “Mmmm,” said Banquet. They both mutely contemplated there own thoughts.
    “I’m thinkin’ the killin’ had The Twin’s mark on it, right enough…” said Banquet after a moment.
    “Oh, for sure, for sure…” said Wee Duffey
    “And no one would blame Mac for what he did, given how The Man had favoured him…”
    “No, no. Not at all. They went way back…”
    “So what else is there to think about?”
    “You’re right. There’s no’ else to think about.”
    “Well all right then. Let’s be gettin’ on wi’it.” said Banquet.

    Despite their cagey exchange both men had definite suspicions about the event and its likely consequences. But whereas Wee Duffy regarded Mr. Mac’s rise to prominence as potentially dangerous to himself, Banquet, very much as Mr. Mac had himself foreseen, saw it as an opportunity to further his own ends. He felt richer already. Wee Duffy, on the other hand, determined to get himself South of the border at the earliest opportunity.

    In their bedroom Mrs. Mac was berating her husband.
    “Jesus, Mac, did ye have te make such a meal o’it.”
    “Dinne fash y’sel, Hen, it was your idea!”
    “Jesus!, Mac, I did na say te make the place a slaughterhouse!”
    “Make it look like The Twins’ doin’, you said.”
    “Jesus!”
    “Look, Woman, No one who’d ever seen their handiwork would ever believe it was them unless it was messy!”
    “Well! We’ve no worries on that score then, Big Man! So tell me, did you have to off the bastards in there too.”
    “Aye, Hen, I did. It had to be quick. It had to be decisive. It had to be believable, and anyway, with the mess in there already it did ne seem to matter.”
    “Och, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Mac grudgingly admitted, “But Jesus, Mac…”
    “Aye, Hen. It’s tough in the dog-eat-dog world of Dunkin’ Doughnuts.”
    “Thank Christ were no mixed up in the deep-fried, battered, Mars Bar trade then! That’d be really hard.”
    “Did I tell you I was thinkin’ about branching out into the Ice-cream business?”
    “Don’t you dare!”
    As the last rays of the setting sun wrought plates of flashing gold in the windows of the Glasgow tenements, Mr. Mac sat alone in sombre contemplation at his desk. Its lamp painted a dim island of light amid the lengthening shadows, isolating him from the tenebrous ambience of his study. He looked up at a tentative knocking on the door. It opened a crack and Banquet’s head peered in.
    “Can I have a word, Mac?”
    “Aye, Man, come in.”
    Banquet sidled into the room and approached the desk, where he stood, awkwardly shuffling his feet under Mr. Mac’s dead-eyed gaze. He was considering the most appropriate way to begin.
    “Have a seat,” said Mr. Mac.
    Banquet pulled a chair up to the desk opposite Mr. Mac and sat down. Mr. Mac continued to subject him to an unblinking stare which he found un-nerving. He picked up a date stamp and played with it nervously, keeping his eyes low to avoid meeting the glassy eyes of his employer.
    “So what’s on your mind?” asked Mr. Mac, after a while.
    “Well, it’s a bit awkward, Mac. I know how close you were to Mr. D, so I was wantin’ to offer my condolences. But at the same time, the board’s made you The Man in his place so I wanted to offer my congratulations, but I didn’a want to seem insensitive or forward - if you know what I mean…?”
    “Aye, man, I know what you mean.”
    “It was a terrible thing, though, right enough. A terrible way to die…Terrible.”
    “Oh, it was, it was.”
    “And The Twin’s… Who’d o’ thought it o’ em?”
    “Who indeed?”
    “Especially with them being so close to Mr. D. an’ all. They were like his bairns, always following him around, watchin’ his back…”
    “Aye, but there’s more than one reason to watch a man’s back. You could harvest a lot o’ knives from dead men’s backs that were put there by men who watched and bided their time, if you’d a mind to.”
    “That’s true, Mac, very true. And of course, they’d a powerful lot o’ drink in ’em.”
    “Aye, aye… Strong drink can do more wicked things to a man than jes’ robbing him o’ his wits.”
    “Oh, that’s so true, Mac, so true… Still, it’s an ill wind, eh? After all, when there’s a few vacancies appear in an organisation like ours, it’s only natural that folk look to move up and fill their shoes…”
    “Oh, for sure… Only natural.”
    “And a man as busy as yourself, Mac… He’s going to need a strong, reliable right hand, someone to take care of the little things that a busy man does’na want te be bothered with…”
    At last, Mr. Mac blinked. With glacial slowness a smile cracked his stony visage. “Dougie,” he said, “We go way back now, don’t we?”
    “Aye, Mac, we do, way back…”
    “And aren’t you my oldest friend?”
    “That I am, Mac.”
    “You know I’ve always liked the way you do things.”
    “Have you, Mac?”
    “Oh I have, I have…”
    “It’s good of you to say so, Mac.”
    “You’re a sensible man who does what he has to wi’out drawing undue attention to him self.”
    “Oh I do, I do…”
    “So I’ve a mind to give you Gordon’s turf as I’m going to be too busy to manage it ma sen, what wi unexpectedly havin’ so much else on my plate, the now.”
    “Now that’s generous, Mac, very generous indeed. You’ll no regret it,” simpered Banquet.
    “It’s no more than your due, Dougie, no more than your due. If you’ll wait just a minute I’ll gi’ ye a letter of authority for ‘The Baker’ that’ll make it official…” Mr. Mac took a sheet of paper and quickly scribbled a note and sealed it in an envelope which he handed to Banquet, who became even more oily and ingratiating than ever.
    “Och, you’re a true friend, Mac, a real pal.”
    “D’inna fash yersel’, Dougie, I always reckon to take care o’ my friends. You’ve no cause to fear you’ll not get what’s comin’ to ye. Mr. Mac stood up, indicating that the interview was over, and Banquet rose and shook his hand.
    “Now you run along an’ give that to the man and it’ll all be official,” continued Mr. Mac, escorting him to the door. “After you’ve seen him, you come to dinner tomorrow night with me an’ Moragh. We’ll celebrate!”
    “That’d be grand, Mac. I’m looking forward to it already.”
    “I’ll see you tonight then. Goodbye, Dougie,” said Mr. Mac closing the door. He was still smiling when he sat back down at his desk. After a moment he started to laugh.

    Banquet was in high spirits as he walked along the high street with Mr. Mac’s letter tucked securely in the inside pocket of his jacket. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and now he had his own turf. It was a prospect that offered the opportunity to become very rich. Now he was in charge of a key element within the organisation, a position which would enable him to establish his own power base. With a little backing, who knew how high he might rise? He drew level with the glass display window of the bakery where he stopped and admired the rows of freshly baked produce inside. His mouth watered in anticipation as he contemplated the possibilities and the food. He smiled, and using his reflection in the plate glass, took a moment to assess his appearance. He straightened his tie, and satisfied, stepped up to the door and walked in. The cheerful little shop bell heralded his arrival.
    A slim, spotty youth with a prominent Adam’s apple and greasy hair, barely concealed by the greying paper cap perched on his head, looked up in surly acknowledgement of his existence.
    “Can I help ye?” asked the boy, in a manner which conveyed the impression that he’d rather not.
    Banquet had been going to ask for a pie but his gaze had been magnetically attracted to a ripe boil on the boy’s nose and he discovered that, incredibly, he had lost his appetite.
    “Go an’ fetch me The Baker lad, an’ be quick about it,” he said, having managed to drag his mind away from the hypnotic fascination of the spot.
    “He’s no’ in,” said the boy with automatic insolence.
    “You’ve no’ been here long, have ye, boy,” said Banquet with ominous patience, “Now my name’s Banquet, that’s Mr. Banquet to you, an’ I know full well that he is. Now you run along an’ tell’m I’m here, an’ be quick about it or you’ll be feelin’ the back o’ my hand, so you will.”
    Impressed only by the threat of imminent violence, the youth ducked through a bead curtain to the back of the shop. With his departure, Banquet discovered that his appetite had returned. He helped himself to a pie, but before he could take a bite, a large figure in chef’s whites appeared through the curtain.
    “Oh, it’s you, Dougie. What’s up?”
    “I’ve a letter for ye from Mac, big man.”
    “Is that so? well then, you’d best come through.” The Baker beckoned to him and called over his shoulder. “Hamish! Watch the shop!”
    The spotty youth returned and flicked a venomous sidelong glance at Banquet as he ducked past him in the doorway. The two men retreated behind the curtain.
    Walking through the busy industrial kitchen behind the shop, they passed, via a side door, into The Baker’s spacious, private office.
    “Will you have a seat, Dougie? How about a dram?” asked the Baker as he shut the door behind them.
    “Thanks. I don’t mind if I do.”
    The Baker poured a couple of drinks, and after handing one to Banquet, sat down at his desk. “So what’s up?” he asked.
    “I’ve a letter for ye from Mac. Ye see, things are startin’ to happen for me. The letter explains everythin’. You can offer me your congratulations after you’ve read it.” He reached into his pocket and proffered the letter.
    “Is that so, big man?” replied The Baker, taking it. While he tore open the envelope and studied the contents, Banquet examined his pie, sniffing it and savouring the aroma.
    The Baker read the note with a half smile and raised an eyebrow. Then he read it again. “Is this on the level?” he asked.
    “Aye, it is. He gave it te me himsel’” said Banquet, proudly.
    “Did he now?” said the Baker, reaching into a draw. “Well in that case…” His hand came up holding a gun and he shot Banquet between the eyes. “Congratulations!”
    Banquet’s chair tipped backwards and his eyes, still smiling, gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. The untasted pie, dropped from his nerveless fingers, rolled unheeded on the carpet.
    The Baker put down the gun and picked up a recipe book. He flicked through the pages until he came to the one he was looking for. “Ah, yes,” he said. The recipe was entitled, ‘Gourmet Banquet Pies’.

  2. #2
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    Part 2

    The Tale of Mr. Mac
    Part Two


    In the parlour of ‘Dunsinnin’, Mr. Mac replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and turned to his wife.
    “That was The Baker. It seems Dougie’ll no’ be comin’ to dinner.”
    “Poor, Dougie.”
    “Aye, you know I’m going to miss him. He always went down well at a party.”
    “So did the food. Don’t be so sentimental, Big Man. Entertainin’ll be a good deal cheaper wi’out him.”
    “You’ve a point there, Hen. He was always a greedy bastard.”
    “I told you it’d be his undoin’.”
    “So you did. Did I tell you how he had the bare-faced cheek to try to blackmail me in my own study?”
    “You did. The man was no’ very bright an’ he got what was comin’ to him. Now, what are you going to do about Wee Duffy?”
    “Duffy? I’ve no plans to do anythin’ about him. True, the man’s a following but I’ve already been appointed by the board. If I mess wi’m now it’ll only stir up trouble.”
    “Then you’ll just have to deal wi’ it, Big Man. You canna’ risk leavin’ him walking about. He and Banquet were close, and they were both there when you offed The Twins, so you have to assume that they talked to each other. What do you think’ll happen when Banquet’s missed?
    “Ah… I see what you mean.”
    “You’d best make it look like an accident, a gas explosion would be favourite.”
    “I don’t know, Hen. It’s no’ my style.”
    “Even better! Find someone from out of town who’s style it is, and do it quickly. Then we’re home free.” With that, Mrs. Mac left the room leaving her husband pondering. He sat, with a thoughtful expression on his face, for fully two minutes before he reached for the telephone.

    Wee Duffy was walking home after a long day pounding the streets, and Wee Duffy was worried. He hadn’t heard from Banquet since last night, in fact no one had.
    But they should have.
    He’d been scouring his haunts, but it was as if he’d dropped off the face of the planet. Wee Duffy knew his friend well; he was a creature of habit, who lacked the imagination to vary his routine. They normally saw each other every morning for a wee heavy in ‘The Slaughtered Lamb’ before Wee Duffy went on to his bookie and Banquet did his rounds. During the course of the afternoon his mobile would ring three or four times, with Banquet phoning to pass on racing tips he’d picked up whilst intimidating jockeys. But now, nothing.
    Not a peep.
    Not a peep out of a man who liked to talk.
    Not a sign of a man who liked to be seen.
    Not a trace of a man who had been there when Mr. D had been horribly murdered whilst a guest in Mr. Mac’s house.
    Not a trace of a man who had witnessed Mr. Mac’s summary execution of The Twins.
    He’d been there too.
    Unlike Banquet, Wee Duffy did have imagination and what he was imagining was bad news for Wee Duffy. It was why he’d been to the station and bought three train tickets for London. He’d no intention of leaving his wife and son behind.
    Normally he would have been home an hour ago but buying the tickets had made him late. He was just walking around the corner onto his street when the evening peace was shattered by the explosion which completely demolished his house.

    In the dining room of ‘Dunsinnin’, Mr. Mac was sitting down to a quiet dinner with his wife. On the table in front of them was a marvellous, crusty pie. Steam, laden with mouth-watering promise, rose from the neat incision in the golden pastry which encased the flavoursome, meaty filling. Mr. Mac cut out a generous portion and handed it to his wife, then dished up a portion for himself. Mrs. Mac helped herself to a spoonful of boiled new potatoes. In the background there was the crump of a distant explosion. Mr. Mac paused momentarily in the act of pouring himself some gravy and smiled.
    “Was that what I thought it was?” asked Mrs. Mac.
    “Aye, Hen. No more worries for Wee Duffy, I’m thinkin’”
    “Good. Pass the gravy, Big man.”
    Mr. Mac did so. They ate in silence for a moment. “Mmmm. This is a really good pie,” he said after a moment, “Really chewy, really tasty. D’you make it yoursel’?”
    “No Mac, I didn’t. It’s shop bought. There’s a new place round the corner.”
    “Well, we’ll have to make a note and make sure they buy from us.”
    “O’ course they do Mac, who else is there?”
    “You’ve a point there, Hen.” There was a conversational hiatus for a while as they concentrated on eating.
    “More Potatoes, Mac?
    “Aye, thank you. You know I think I’ll risk another slice.”
    “Fill your boots, Big Man.”
    Mr. Mac dished up some more pie onto his plate then dropped the spoon with a clatter. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, staring at his plate.
    “What’s the matter, wi’ ye man?” asked his wife in alarm.
    “Jesus!” Mr. Mac pushed himself back from the table and stood up, pointing at his plate. “Jesus…” he breathed again.
    “Mac, what is it?” Mrs. Mac followed the shaking finger and saw what it was that had so alarmed her husband. There on his plate, in a pool of gravy, was a mangled signet ring. It was Banquet’s.
    It seemed he’d come for dinner after all.

    In the cosy living-room above his shop The Baker was relaxing in front of the television with his feet up and enjoying a glass of scotch when the telephone rang. Without taking his eyes from the screen he reached across and picked up the receiver.
    “Hullo?” he said.
    On the other end of the phone Mr. Mac tried to make himself heard above the histrionics of Mrs. Mac, wailing, calling on God for forgiveness and smashing plates.
    “What the bloody hell were you playing at Man?!” he bellowed into the phone.
    “Oh, is that you, Mac?”
    “Of course it’s me, you bloody fool, who d’you think it’d be?”
    “I didn’t expect it to be anyone to be honest, I’m no’ psychic. Are you all right, Mac? You seem a little upset about something.”
    “Upset…! Upset, Of course I’m upset, you maniac, I’ll give you upset!”
    “OK, Mac, so you’re upset. Is there any chance you might get round to tellin’ me why and what it’s got to do with me?”
    “Oh, I’ll tell you why, all right, don’t you worry about that. Y’see, me and Moragh have just had pie for dinner.”
    “That’s nice, Mac. Was it one of mine?”
    “Yes, it bloody well was. It was one of your gourmet pies.”
    “Ah… Did you like it, Mac?”
    “Well… yes, but that’s no’ the bloody point!”
    “It’s always the point, Mac.”
    “No, Man, the point is that it had Bloody Banquet in it!”
    “Oh… I see… How d’you know it was Banquet?”
    “I know it was Banquet because I found his bloody signet ring on my bloody plate!”
    “Ah… Well… I’m sorry about that, Mac. That would be Hamish’s fault. He’s a bit careless. I’ll have a word with him.”
    “A bit careless…? You’ll have a word with him…? Is that what you’ll do? Well that’s no’ bloody good enough!”
    “Well, what exactly do you expect me to do?”
    “Don’t you worry, I’ll bloody think of somethin’. Listen, Man, I’m no’ a cannibal… When I sat down to my pie I didn’t expect to be eating someone!
    “Well, It wouldn’t be the first time,” said The Baker, darkly.
    “ Jesus… Moragh’s gone spare! She didna’ like the man when he was alive but now… You’d best keep out o’ my sight or I’ll no’ be responsible for my actions!” Mr. Mac slammed down the phone.
    The Baker carefully replaced the receiver and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. “Ooops…” he said, quietly, then gulped down the remains of his drink and stood up. He walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Hamish!” he called, “Where are you boy?”
    “I’m down here, Mr. Tod.” Came the reply floating up from downstairs.
    “You’d best be packing a bag, son. We’re going for a wee vacation South o’ the boarder. We’ll be staying wi’ my brother in London. He’s a place on Fleet Street, you know…”

    In a dimly lit room in an exclusive club, a group of thoughtful, silent men sat facing each other in high, wing-backed, leather armchairs. They pondered over their cigars from which the smoke rose in twisting coils in the semi-darkness and hung above them in a miasmic cloud. The board of the erstwhile firm of Dunnykin’s Dunkin Doughnuts were meeting in secret, extraordinary session to discuss the crisis.
    At last one of them spoke. He was a wizened old man whose claw like hand gripped the handle of an ornate walking stick with fierce determination, as if releasing it would allow his twisted soul to fall far, far into the abyss. The white knuckles visible through the translucent, aged skin, were not the feature which caught the attention, though. It was his eyes, diamond bright and just as hard, glinting with a terrible ruthless purpose, which impressed upon all who met him the awful force of his personality.
    “Gentlemen,” he began, “It’s time we faced the facts and acknowledged that we may have made… a mistake…” There was a general murmur of assent.
    “With the demise of young Dunnykin at the hands of The Twins (although with hindsight, I’m inclined to question the plausibility of that conclusion) we sought to appoint a strong manager with a proven track-record in the business. So we chose young Mac.”
    “Aye! We did…” said a shadowy figure from behind a cloud of cigar smoke.
    There was another low-key rumble of agreement from the gathering.
    “But since then things ha’ no’ been as they should,” continued the shadowy figure. “It seems to me that since Mac took over we’ve lost out. Banquet’s disappeared, Wee Duffy’s family’s dead in some weird accident, so he’s cleared out, and The Baker’s in hiding down South.”
    “Aye, Gentlemen, things are bad. Bad for us. Bad for business. Bad for our reputation. We’re becoming the laughing stock of the Guild of Northern Bakers,” said the old man.
    “So What’s to be done?” asked a ferret-faced smoker.
    “He’ll have to go,” said a fat, podgy individual with a reedy voice.
    “That’s easier said than done,” said a man who looked almost normal, save for a missing ear and a cast in one eye. “Is there anyone here who thinks he’d like to have a go?” It was a question which elicited a general, negative from everyone.
    “Aye. He’s a hard man, right enough,” said the ancient one. It was a statement which prompted a subdued acknowledgement from the others. It was followed by a thoughtful silence.
    “We’d best employ a professional, someone from the South who doesn’t know his reputation,” said the ferret, breaking the silence.
    “That sounds like a good idea,” said the fat one. “But who do we know?”
    A low murmur accompanied a general exchange of enquiring looks and a lot of head shaking and shrugging from the group.
    “I think I might know of someone,” said a cadaverous individual who, up to the present, had remained silent. The new speaker, ignored until now, suddenly became the centre of attention.
    “You do?”
    “Who?”
    “How do we reach ’em?”
    “Are you going to enlighten us, Connor?” asked the old man.
    “No. It’s probably better that you don’t know,” said Connor.
    The old man’s eyes burned even brighter for a moment before he half closed them. “I see…” he said.
    “But I’ll need the authority of the board to open negotiations… It won’t be cheep”
    “Ah… These things never are… Well, gentlemen, once again we ask the question. What’s to be done? Do we give Connor the authority he requires, or do we sit around moaning while our business collapses under us? Your votes please.”
    “I say yes,” said the fat man.
    “He’s got to go,” said the ferret.
    “Aye, kill’m,” said the man with one ear and a cast.
    “Do it,” said the shadowy man.
    “Then we’re all of one mind,” said the old man. “Connor, you have the authority of the board and will be given the funds you need. It only remains for you to make the necessary arrangements. You’d best be getting on with it.”
    “Leave it to me.” Connor rose and nodded to the group then turned and walked out under the watchful gaze of the board.
    “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinking?” asked the ferret after they heard the outside door close.
    “Don’t you worry about Connor,” said the old man. “I know how to handle him…”
    “You do?” asked the fat man.
    “Oh Yes… I know how to handle Connor…” The old man smiled to himself and emitted a ghastly, bubbling rattle and his whole body seemed to vibrate. He was laughing. After a moment they all began to chuckle. In what was now a mellow frame of mind, they returned to the contemplation of their cigars and fine malt whiskey.

    It would be too much to suggest that Mr. Mac was troubled by any pangs of conscience, after all, he didn’t have one, but nevertheless, he was aware that things were not going quite as smoothly as he might have hoped. Since the incident with the pie Mrs. Mac had been behaving strangely. She had developed a twitch and declared that she was now a vegetarian. Her once shrewd eyes were dull and red and her sleek body had become a wan shadow of its former voluptuousness. Despite the best efforts of the likes of Loreal, Garnier and Vidal Sassoon, her formerly thick and luxurious hair had become straggly, drab and lack-lustre.
    And of course, there was the other thing…
    A mere shadow of her former self, she wandered the halls and landings of Dunsinnin in her sleep, and at dead of night, she cleaned…

    It was midnight. The psychiatrist and nurse Mr. Mac had engaged to watch his wife, were standing in the shadows, outside the room which had seen the last earthly moments of Mr. Dunnykin and The Twins. It was a room which no longer looked like an abattoir, Mr. Mac’s minions had seen to that. New curtains hung at the windows, a brand new bed, with brand new covers, occupied the place where the gory husk of Mr. Dunnykin had lain.
    Gone were the spattered bloodstains on the walls, replaced now by fresh paint and wallpaper, while on the floor, a fresh carpet lay upon scrubbed and disinfected floorboards. Yet still, Mrs. Mac felt compelled to clean.
    As she washed down the walls the psychiatrist turned to the nurse.
    “You say she’s in here every night?” he asked in a whisper.
    “Aye, Doctor, every night for the last fortnight.”
    “Hmmm…”
    “I mean, well, it’s no’ exactly normal is it?”
    “No, not really, but then again, what is normal?”
    “What do you mean, Doctor?”
    “Well, it wouldn’t be normal for me to clean a room at dead of night, and I take it from your initial question that it wouldn’t be normal for you either. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t normal for her. She may habitually be a midnight cleaner…”
    “But doctor, she’s doing it in her sleep! Last night and the night before, I was sitting up with her when she got out of bed and walked right past me without seeing me. She just went to the cupboard under the stairs, collected the cleansers and came straight to this room.”
    “Interesting…”
    At this point Mrs Mac ceased washing down the walls and turned her attention to the floor. Taking a container of carpet freshener she sprinkled the contents over the ground and started Hoovering. As she did so she sang.
    “You do the Shake and Vac and put the freshness back, do the Shake and Vac and put the freshness back…” Her voice cracked and she let out a soul wrenching wail.
    “Ohhh… Who am I trying to kid? All the Shake and Vac in Caledonia couldn’t sweeten this bloody room…”
    In her distress she gave the Hoover flex a vicious tug which pulled the plug out of the socket. Wringing her hands and sobbing uncontrollably, she wandered out onto the landing, past the watching medics, and back to her bedroom.
    “Definitely what you’d call, ‘unusual’,” said the psychiatrist.
    “What do you think, doctor?” asked the nurse.
    “Nurse, that woman, for want of a better term, is what we would call in medical parlance, Barking!”
    “Can we no’ do anythin’ for her?”
    “No, nurse, probably not. But we can get rich pretending we can. I can see a cure like this, taking years…”

    Meanwhile, Mr. Mac was cruising the darkened back-streets and alleyways of Glasgow, looking for answers. For several days now he had been conscious of an increasing isolation from the board. Business was poor and those around him displayed a nervous disinclination to meat his eye. The latter would not normally have concerned him. Usually the people with whom he had business dealings were afraid of him, which tended to have the same effect. But now people looked away from him as they would look away from a decaying corpse.
    It was - disturbing.
    No one member of the guild had sufficient bottle to take him on, not alone. But if they combined forces… Well… then he might have a problem. Also there was the remote possibility of a hostile take-over bid from South of the boarder. If the organisation was perceived to be in disarray, weakened by his purges, divided against itself, then who knew what might happen. Normally he would have turned to Mrs. Mac for advice, but Mrs. Mac was not herself. Who would ever have thought that Moragh would crack? It was unbelievable, but it seemed to have happened.
    So Mr. Mac pounded the midnight streets in search of reassurance. He was looking for… The Men.

    It was getting late. He was tired and had just decided to give up on his search, when, turning a corner on a nondescript little street, in an unremarkable residential area, he was arrested by the flare of a match in the darkness to his left. It was immediately followed by a stream of cheep tobacco smoke, blown out of the shadows, which hung about him in an evil-smelling cloud. Momentarily he was debilitated by a spate of uncontrollable coughing. Upon recovering control of his respiratory functions he became aware that his quest was at an end.
    The evil trio stood around him wearing villainous grins.
    “Ev’nin’”, said Bad Teeth.
    “We ’eard you was lookin’ for us…” said Bad Breath.
    “Well, you’ve found us, ain’t ya,” said the one known as ’Arry’, through a bubbling, necrotic wheeze. He took another drag from his nasty dog-end.
    “So we wonders, we does, we wonders. We wonders, why?, We wonders, what, don’t we boys? Oh yes, we wonders…” said Bad Teeth.
    “Yeah, Mister. Why you lookin’? What, you want, eh?” asked Bad Breath.
    “’E’s come for words o’ wisdom, ain’t that right, Mr. Mac?” wheezed Harry.
    “Eh? Is that right, Mr. Mac, Words of wisdom?” asked Bad Teeth.
    “You lookin’ for answers, then?” asked Bad Breath.
    “I am,” said Mr. Mac, uneasily.
    “Well, ain’t we all, eh boys!” said Harry through a bubbling laugh. His companions joined in, in an unholy chorus of cackles.
    “I need to know if I’m safe,” said Mr. Mac
    “Safe!” bubbled Harry.
    “That’s what ’e said, ’Arry’. Safe.” said Bad Teeth.
    “Oh, so ’e want’s to know if ’e’s safe, does ’e?” said Bad Breath.
    “I do,” said Mr. Mac
    “Well now,” said Bad Teeth, “That would all depend now, wouldn’t it?”
    “Depend? Depend on what?” asked Mr. Mac
    “Oh, this an’ that. There’s lots of variables, see?” wheezed Harry.
    “Well - you see, there’s our gratuity to consider,” said Bad Teeth, “So we has a proper, binding contract, if you know what I mean. It’s what you might call, a question of size, if you get my drift.”
    “And then we ’as to take into account what you understands as bein’ safe, it bein’, what you might call, subjective?” said Bad Breath.
    “So, it’s like the boys says, it’s all relative, see?” wheezed Harry.
    “Very much so,” sad Bad Breath.
    “Oh yes,” said Bad Teeth
    “That’s ’Arry’s Theory of Relativity, that is. ’E’s a bright lad is our ’Arry,” said Bad Breath.
    “A regular Einstein, ain’t you ’Arry,” said Bad Teeth as Harry simpered.
    “So, what you got for us then?” asked Bad Breath..
    Mr. Mac reached into his coat and extracted his wallet and handed it to Bad Teeth. “Help yourself,” he said with resignation. Bad Teeth flipped it open and removed a wad of notes under the watchful gaze of his ungodly companions. “Ahhhh… very generous,” he said. Satisfied that it contained no further liquid assets he let the empty wallet drop to the ground and made as if to walk off.
    “Hey!” exclaimed Mr. Mac, reaching for another inside pocket. He froze at the familiar pricking sensation in the region of his kidneys. Bad Breath peered over his shoulder and grinned at him.
    Bad Teeth half turned and looked back at him. “You still ’ere?”
    “What about my question?” asked Mr. Mac, angrily.
    “What question was that then?” replied Bad Teeth with a stumpy, mocking smile.
    “’E wanted to know if ’e was safe,” bubbled Harry through a phlegmy chuckle.
    “’Ow safe d’you feel?” purred the knife wielding Bad Breath into Mr. Mac’s left ear.
    “Now, now, no need for that,” said Bad Teeth. “Oh dear. Did I forget?”
    “You did. You forgot to tell ’im.” said Harry.
    “Ooops! Sorry about that, Mr. Mac. ’Specially wiv you being such a generous gentlemen and all. It’s the money, you see… A terrible distraction, money is…”
    “Well?” asked Mr. Mac. visibly seething with barely suppressed rage.
    “Well, what?” said Bad Teeth.
    “Calm down, Mr. Mac, Calm down. ’E’s comin’ to it.” whispered Bad Breath in his ear.
    “Now then,” said Bad Teeth, “Where was I… Let me see… Ah yes… I remember… As I see it, you don’t ’ave nuffin’ to worry about. Nuffin’. Leastways not unless Berni Wood comes to Dunsinnin, if you gets my drift.
    “But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Mac with relief.
    “Is it now,” chuckled Harry.
    “And there was something else, what was it now… Oh yes, I remember… you can also rest assured that no man born of woman will ever ’arm you,” continued Bad Teeth, “Yes. I fink that’s it. Did I forget anythin’ boys?”
    “Not a thing,” breathed Bad Breath into Mr. Mac’s ear.
    “That’s it, right enough,” wheezed Harry.
    “Oh good, I am glad. Can’t be goin’ around not fulfillin’ the terms of our contract now can we? Bad for our reputation,” said Bad Teeth. ’Appy now?”
    “Oh yes,” said Mr. Mac, now visibly relaxed.
    “Good. That’s nice, isn’t it, boys, Mr. Mac bein’ ’appy an’ all,” said Bad Teeth “Well, if there ain’t nuffin’ more, we’ll be takin’ our leave…”
    “You know ’ow it is…” said Harry
    “Places to go…” said Bad Breath
    “People to see…” said Bad Teeth
    Their laughing voices faded as the weird trio melted into the night, leaving Mr. Mac and his empty wallet alone on the dark, deserted street.

    In the days following his encounter with the weird ones, the Laird of Dunsinnin had found himself increasingly isolated from the board. Indeed, so isolated was he that a dramatic polarisation of the guild had developed, with Mr. Mac and his loyal Myrmidons on one side and the entire remainder of the board of Dunnikin’s Dunkin’ Doughnuts (now allied with everyone else) on the other. But he was now so confident of his invulnerability that he had holed up in Dunsinnin with his soldiers and was currently planning a hostile take-over of the guild’s flagship bakery. The lights in his study burned late into the night as he worked on his battle plan, while outside, his men patrolled the grounds in the darkness. Neither Mr. Mac, nor his men, were aware that they were being watched.
    Outside the garden wall, a lithe, slim figure, swathed from head to foot in skin-tight, black Lycra, observed the sentries though night vision goggles and, having determined the optimum point of entry, slid undetected over the wall. With inexorable competence, the intruder began stalking the guards. They died quietly, with little more than a bubbling gasp to mark their passing.
    It was perhaps an unfortunate coincidence that, inside, Mr. Mac’s chief of security, who should have been watching the CCTV monitors, was currently sitting on the lavatory reading a well thumbed copy of Hello magazine. Had he not been answering the insistent demands of his bowels while his colleagues were passing into oblivion, some of them might have lived a little longer. As it was he was completely unaware of the penetration of the grounds. He was engrossed in the private lives of minor celebrities when the stealthy figure expertly slipped into the house through a ground floor window.
    Emerging from the loo, the security man never even had time to notice that he was dead. Easing his body to the floor, the intruder removed the blade from the base of his skull and cleaned it on his shirt. The metal blade glinted briefly as it was replaced in its sheath.
    In his study, Mr. Mac paused in his scheming and pushed his chair back from the desk where he’d been working. He lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs, then stood and walked over to the window. Pulling back the curtains he looked out onto the terrace and saw only the empty night. There should have been a man on guard outside.
    He opened the French window and stepped onto the terrace. He looked out onto the garden which contained the night-time scent of flowers but no guards. At least not guards standing up. As he peered into the night he fancied he could descry huddled forms slumped on the ground in positions which roughly correlated with the posts of his sentries.
    He dropped the cigarette and stamping it out, reached for the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster.
    “Callum…! Murdo…!” He called but the only answer was the lonely echo of the night. Making a last sweep of the scene he turned and walked back into his study and closed the window, taking care to lock it. Then he turned out the light, drew the curtains and returned to his desk. He sat down, and placing the gun in front of him, he waited.
    ‘So,’ he thought as he sat in the dark, ‘The worms had turned and they dared to challenge him. Well, it was probably inevitable.’ He was annoyed at the loss of his men, but, lets face it, they weren’t very good. Men could always be replaced but he was invincible. Hadn’t the weird men said so? He had nothing to fear until Berni Wood came to Dunsinnin and he hadn’t noticed any extra trees outside.
    No.
    No man born of woman could harm him!
    He settled down into his chair and smiled to himself.
    He heard the Hoover upstairs and checked the clock. It was midnight. Moragh was cleaning again. ‘She’d ware out that new carpet the way she was going,’ he thought.
    There was a muffled thud and then the Hoover stopped. Suddenly the silence was deafening.
    He frowned and picked up the gun and watching the crack of light under the door from the hall, carefully aimed his desk lamp at the doorway.
    Outside in the hall, a black-clad, stealthy presence turned out the light. Mr. Mac saw the light go out and listened intently. After what seemed and age, he heard the tiny click of the latch and an infinitesimal squeak as the door was cautiously opened.
    Judging his moment to perfection, he turned on the desk-lamp. Momentarily blinded by the light, the intruder was caught squarely in its glare and Mr. Mac had time to squeeze off two rounds, smack into the centre of the dazzled intruder, who emitted a muffled grunt, fell backwards and rolled to the side out of sight. What Mr. Mac had not expected to hear was the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn and the scampering of running feet.
    “Kevlar!” he breathed.
    Dropping the gun he now knew to be useless, he leaped to the wall and grabbed a claymore and tage from the display of clan artefacts which hung there.
    “So! You fancy yoursel’ a swordsman, do ye?” he called in challenge. “Well then, let’s see what you’re made of! Ten to One it’s lots o’ tubes and wobbly purple bits! A claymore’s a handy tool for dissecting a fool!”
    Through the doorway into the darkened house beyond, he ran in pursuit of his quarry, grinning from ear to ear with blood-lust.
    Searching the house the first thing he found was the body of his wife. In a pool of her own blood, she lay upon the floor of the fatal bedroom, her silent Hoover at her side. Her throat was cut.
    “Oh, Moragh,” he sighed, “What a mess… and after all your efforts to clean up in here! You’d be sorely tried to see yoursel’”
    Hearing a noise behind him he turned and beheld his adversary, whose sword described a gleaming silver arc in a cut designed to sever his head from his neck. He parried it easily with his heavy blade and his assailant leaped back and stood en-guard.
    “You’ll pay dearly for this night’s work, ye spawny, swivel-eyed git that y’are. I’ve only just had this room decorated!” he charged, his sword weaving a ruthless tapestry of potential oblivion, but each killing blow was deflected by the sparkling blade of his opponent.
    After a while they stood apart, breathing heavily, and regarded each other with wary appraisal.
    “You’ve some skill with a blade, I’ll grant you that, but you may as well know that you’re wasting your time, no man can harm me.” said Mr. Mac. “The powers protect me. I’ll no’ fall till Berni Wood comes to my house and when I looked jes’ now I saw no new trees in my garden.”
    The black-clad figure in front of him spoke in a pleasant, well modulated voice, pitched a little higher than Mr. Mac expected.
    “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” said the intruder.
    “Suit your sel’,” said Mr. Mac, “Though I’m no’ particularly bothered to know the name of everyone I kill.”
    The figure before him whipped off its hood and a cascade of long blond hair poured over shoulders shaking with laughter. “Oh, you should know mine… The name’s Wood, Berni Wood, it’s short for Bernice… Doubtless you can see that I’m not a man…”
    In a blur she whipped her sword around and Mr. Mac’s head, still wearing its expression of stunned surprise, toppled off his neck and fell to the floor. The headless body sagged and collapsed in a heap at her feet.
    “There can be only one,” she said with a smile as she looked upon the ruin of his ambition. She wiped her blade with the black silken hood and sheathed it. Then she stooped to pick up the severed head, wrapped it in the cloth and walked out into the night.

    A few days later a package was delivered to the headquarters of the Guild of Northern Bakers, where the members were meeting in evening conclave. It sat on the table in front of the representatives of the board of Dunnykin’s Dunkin’ Doughnuts, who regarded it impassively as they sipped their whiskey and smoked their cigars. It was a box with a volume of about one cubic foot. No one seemed inclined to open it.
    “Can we assume that the Board of the late Mr. Dunnykin’s franchise have regained control of their organisation, and that a state of equilibrium has returned to the baking trade in Glasgow?”
    The question was asked by the Guild-master. All eyes turned to the wizened old man who gripped his cane as if his life depended on it, and who sat at the head of the Dunnykin Board. He did not answer directly but turned to look at a young man who sat to his right.
    “Connor…” he rasped, pointing with a claw like finger at the box.
    The young man stood and leaned over to the package and cut the string with his penknife. He slit the tape sealing the lid and pulled it open. Reluctantly he looked inside. He swallowed hard and sat back down. Every eye in the room was upon him. Eventually he nodded. The old man turned to the Guild-master.
    “You can,” he said.
    “Then if there is no other business I declare the matter closed and this meeting of the guild concluded. We will adjourn and reconvene as scheduled in one month,” said the Guild-master. In small groups the delegates stood up and made their way to the bar. Still in his seat, the old man turned to Connor and spoke softly in his ear.
    “You made sure you paid her, didn’t you? I’d hate to have her come calling in respect of an unpaid bill.”
    “You needn’t worry,” the young man replied, “All accounts are settled in full.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. Did you manage to reach Wee Duffy and The Baker?
    “I did. They’ll be back by Friday.”
    “You’ve done well for yourself, Connor. You’ve a future in the baking trade and you’ll go far.
    “Thank you, Sir.” said Connor with more than a hint of satisfaction.
    “So I’m going to give you something to remember the occasion by,” The old man smiled and pointed to the box which still sat on the table. “Just to remind you not to go too far…”
    “Thank you, Sir.” This time the tone sounded considerably less self satisfied. He was acutely aware that the old man’s smile was not a nice one. With the box in one hand Connor helped him to his feet with the other and proffered his arm in support as they made their way to the door. They were the last to leave.

  3. #3
    Something's gotta give PrinceMyshkin's Avatar
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    Brilliant! Funny as hell! I doubt that Mr. Shakes could have done better although he, no doubt, would have done it in blank verse. Thanks.

  4. #4
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    First off, a confession: As a practice I do not generally comment on postings made by LitNutters until they've been posting here a while. There's always a risk of spending a lot of time reading and trying to analyze the piece for a poster who is just passing through and might not come back to our beloved site. Because other family members share this PC, my online time is really limited, but a fellow LitNutter whose opinions I highly-value recommended that I take a look at your piece, so here comes my comment, which, I beg that you take with the proverbial grain of salt:

    First, your posting is really hard on the ol' eyes and an example of the first thing mentioned in "You Know I'll Stop Reading Your Short Story when. . ." Click this:

    http://www.online-literature.com/for...830#post657830

    In the future, please hit the "enter" key between paragraphs.

    Now, to your story itself. The adage "Brevity is the soul of wit" may be a cliché, but it's true. Consider cutting the over-all length of this piece. There is no need to "cover" the entire play.

    I realize that this parodies Shakespeare's tragedy, but a parody usually imitates the literary form of the original work, so it may have been more effective in the form of iambic pentameter. The other purpose for the parody is an update or modernization of the original. There have been innumerable precedents for updates of Shakespearean works, notably West Side Story, Kiss Me Kate, countless operas, not to mention thousands of poems using Shakespeare's themes or quotations. Anne Sexton's "All My Pretty Ones" lifts its title directly from the very play we're talking about here.

    We say Shakespeare's works are "classics" and "timeless" because nearly everything he says about the human condition is still true today, and will still be true for as long as we human beings inhabit this planet. So there is absolutely no point in trying to re-write Shakespeare unless
    the current writer wants to show how our present age is similar to Shakespeare's observations from the late 16th and early 17th centuries. When the writer undertakes such a project, parody is a useful tool to satirize the political and social fabric of our time. I am sorry to say that I can't see how your Macbeth parody does this, although it certainly is humorous in parts, especially the section where Lady Mac's trying to get the damn spot out with a Hoover and how you got around the original plot device concerning Mac's nemesis as one "not from woman born." (I was wondering how you would handle it, and your take on it was both funny and a surprise.)

    Much of the humor in this piece is overly-dependent on the use of regional dialect, methinks. A writer has to be a genius of the calibre of a Robert Burns or a Mark Twain in
    order for reconstructed regional dialect to be even authentic, let alone effective. There's always a danger of having the dialect "take over" the entire work to the detriment of its central purpose. Secondly, if you do decide to go with the regional dialect, it is crucial that the dialect be consistent; otherwise you get a mish-mash like that of Kevin Cosner's dialogue in the Robin Hood movie. In part of the movie he sounds like a medieval native of Sherwood Forest; in other parts a used car salesman from Des Moines, Iowa, circa 1991.

    Finally, it is apparent to me that you are a young writer, not yet bothered by what Edmund Wilson calls "the anxiety of influence." I commend you on your ambition -- to attempt to do your own version a masterpiece, whose subject matter is ambition.

    I did enjoy reading this and hope to see more efforts from you on the LitNet.
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 02-26-2010 at 05:56 PM.

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    Dear AuntShecky

    Please permit me to reply to your erudite assessment.

    Firstly, and I totally agree, it is, as posted, a bit hard on the eyes. This is because the act of posting destroyed the formatting, which rather took me aback and I did spend some time trying to re establish it, to no avail. Due to the length of the piece and the time available to me when I put it up, the prospect of ploughing through it and adding spaces in the appropriate places daunted me somewhat so in the end I just gave up.

    In view of the length of the original play and the events therein I really don’t think that I can be accused of covering the whole play. You will have noted the devices employed to curtail and combine events, but the specifics of those elements covered are those that I therefore deem essential, namely the most memorable, aspects of the tale.

    With regard to your musings as to whether the parody works, or is even worthwhile: ultimately I feel this must be considered subjective. Taken from an intellectual perspective I hear what you say and can empathise with your position. Ultimately, though, I consider myself an entertainer, and to people on the same wavelength it is just as likely to completely satisfying.

    Talking of wavelengths this piece is in an intermediary stage. Ultimately it is intended as a radio script. Whilst writing it I had specific voices in mind, from the pantheon of Scottish talent working in the UK. In particular the extraordinary Gregor Fisher of Rab C. Nesbit fame and the marvellous actress, whose name temporarily escapes me, who played his wife. The conceit of Lady M in the form of a Glaswegian housewife from the Gorbals, is in itself, hysterical. There are many others, from the marvellous Bill Paterson to the peerless Brian Cox, (who has made significant appearances in several Hollywood films).

    Now I know from reading posts in your strand that you are a writer of significant talent and much respected on the forum and, from what I can glean from your profile, that you are resident in upstate New York. Can I take it that you are an indigenous resident of those parts? I ask as I am unsure how familiar you may be with some of the names and programmes I mention.

    Now if I may, I will address the dialect question. I take your point here but feel I must point out the initial heavy use and indeed varying degree of dialect is actually quite deliberate. This is for a number of reasons. Firstly, having established the characters audio profile in the mind of the reader, I consider it unnecessary to belabour the point. This is a similar attitude to Peter Jackson’s approach to the treatment of the Hobbits in the Lord of the Rings.

    In that instance he very sparingly used small people and men on stilts to describe the diminutive stature of the Hobbits in comparison with elves and men. (see the DVD special features)

    Secondly, you must be aware that people’s speech (and dialect) patterns change, depending on whom they are addressing. They degenerate most when interacting with intimates and are more contrived and measured with strangers. This accounts for Mr. Mac’s speech patterns when addressing the weird brothers and more regional expression with his wife and business partners. When performed by actors, their natural rhythms and inflections would, in any case, disguise any such minor failings on my part.

    You envisage my being a young writer. If by this you are referring to my age you are sadly mistaken. I am a year short of 50, but if by young you mean unpublished then you are correct. However, I have been writing, off and on for twenty years, have one complete novel under my belt, am halfway through another, written a feature length screenplay, (which I would dearly love to get to Frank Miller) and a number of shorts, some of which have actually been made, and not just by me.

    Lastly, may say that I appreciate the time you devoted to reading and assessing my efforts (especially in the light of your opening paragraph) and I don’t mind any constructive criticism especially when delivered in so charming and courteous a manner. As you continue to observe my posts I will watch and learn from yours.

    With thanks,

    H

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    Thanks for posting this reasonable and perfectly valid reply.
    Auntie

  7. #7
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    Bump, Bumpety, Bump, Bump. Bump! Bump!

  8. #8
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    I can't remember exactly the point at which this all came together for me, maybe it was the correlation of Wee Duffy to Macduff's son, but when I made the connection it made me "LOL" ... "Wee Duffy", *LOLOLOL* Love it!

    I also appreciate the way you employed the dialect. Seems there has been a lot of that going on around here lately *Wink*. You did an excellent job with it too in my opinion.

    I can only imagine how large and difficult a project this was for you to implement but I think you did a very nice job with it. It was great fun comparing the scenes in your story to the work from which it was inspired.

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    A very hard read due to the paragraphs being jammed together, and the weird Glasgow Scottish dialect. The current rating is completely unjustified ,and probably due to the resident mutual admiration society as found on all forums.

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    Auntie! Thanks for the bump!

    Hi Dato, and thanks for reading. Glad you enjoyed it As for the remark about dialect, sadly this was my first post on the Short Story section, nearly five years ago! Transliteration of dialect is always tricky. It nearly always gets criticised because there are so many nuances in pronunciation and the thicker it gets the more unreadable it becomes! Lol. I remember retreating from Under the Greenwood Tree, at the tender age of nine because I couldn't understand Hardy's rendering of rural Dorsetese. More recently, I ventured into generic cowboy speak in Doom Town. It garnered a comment from Calidor that I handled the lingo reasonably well "for a Brit".

    The fact that it was my first post also explains why it ended up as an awkward block of text on screen. Having been caught out by this, I subsequently learned to prepare my work differently prior to posting. I actually wrote it more than ten years ago. How time flies! I do remember that it was tremendous fun to write. Apparently not everyone's cup of tea, though.

    Which brings me to Lee. Well, tastes vary, but as I pointed out above, this piece was posted some time ago and was rated by people who didn't know me. Mutual admiration, as you call it, was not a factor. They enjoyed it, whilst you didn't. Fair enough. The response is always subjective. However, you may be in a minority, who can say. I note from your eight posts that your opinion of the literary merit on this forum is pretty low. Six of your eight posts are scathing, although one ventures into the realms of the back-handed compliment. One wonders why you stay when you see so little to like. Perhaps you should dazzle us with your own penmanship and show us all how it's done. I'm sure we'd all find it edifying.

    Thanks to all who read. Live and be well - H
    Last edited by Hawkman; 01-16-2015 at 06:28 AM.

  11. #11
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
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    Dear Hawk or is it "Hey Jimme?"

    As a suspected associate of the MAS I likewise have requested Mr Lee to basically submit a story we can all view in our renowned objective manner.
    I believe its what our American cousins term "Put up, or shut up."

    Och en awey
    M.

  12. #12
    Registered User 108 fountains's Avatar
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    I enjoyed it a lot, too, Hawkman. Since I have been writing a lot more in the past year, I've found that when I read, I'm much more cognizant of what the writer must have been thinking and how he went about developing the story. It's obvious that this required a lot of work to make sure the characters, if not the actual events, were faithful representations of the originals in their new forms. It was also obvious that you were enjoying yourself immensely while writing the piece. There is an enthusiam in the writing that comes through in the reading. It's been too many years since I've read the original that I'm sure I missed a lot of parallels and allusions, but I got the gist of it. I did appreciate the parallel between Lady MacBeth's "Out, damned spot!" with Moragh's cleaning of the carpet (and I laughed at the humor of her first reaction when she first saw the dead bodies - “Oh my carpets! Oh My curtains! Will ye look at the mess!")

    I'm not sure of why Auntie decided to bump this story at this time. It might be because there has been a discussion of the use of dialect, and she had made a point that one effective use of dialect is when it helps distinguish between characters. This story does that with the three "men" having very heavy dialects, and with Mr. Mac having his own unique voice, as well.

    I like how you switched the gender of the original MacDuff as a way to get around the "man born of a woman" problem, and it paralelled nicely with the switching of the genders of the three witches at the beginning of the story.

    While I was reading I kept trying to remember where on this Forum I had seen something similar before - something that also had comic allusions to the three witches of MacBeth; then in your response you reminded me - it was your story Doom Town. I spent the last 20 minutes searching for it, but I couldn't find it again. I remember I liked that story a lot, too.

    As far as Lee's comments to this and to other recent posts, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt that he's just expressing his honest opinion. Nothing wrong with that. Not everyone can appreciate genius, you know.
    Last edited by 108 fountains; 01-16-2015 at 05:16 PM.
    A just conception of life is too large a thing to grasp during the short interval of passing through it.
    Thomas Hardy

  13. #13
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    Hi hawk, just read your little tale and thoroughly enjoyed it as Macbeth is one of my favourite plays. You did a wonderful job with it. It's funny and witty. Oh and that “marvellous, crusty pie” really made me laugh.
    Thanks for sharing. It was bloody brilliant.

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    Comrade, MANICHEAN, greetings and felicitations, me ol' China. Thanks for weighing in in support, etc... But what did you think of the story? Hope you enjoyed it.

    108 F: Hi, and thanks for reading. I'm delighted that you appreciated the various allusions and parallels, and you might have noted that Mrs M's reaction to the bloody scene also owed a debt to the Bard, though not from the Scottish Play. I adapted Shylock's lamentation, "Oh my ducats, oh my daughter" to fit, and enhance Lady M's, "who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him," with a more prosaic and practical modern emphasis

    Even when rereading this piece with the long perspective of hindsight from the act of writing, I am still enthused by Banquo's ghost at the feast being figured in a way that one can really get one's teeth into. The intertextuality with Sweeny Todd and the film "Highlander", and the occasional sprinkle of Terry Pratchett, means there ought to be something there for everyone, lol.

    As for Doom Town, you might try visiting my profile page, clicking the link to "Find latest started threads" and you'll find it on the first page of the search results. A handy tip when looking for a specific title by a particular forum member. Much faster than back-tracking through the pages on the various forums.

    Thanks again for reading and leaving your comments.

    Snowy: hello to you too! Lovely to see you flitting through. Absolutely delighted you enjoyed it so much. Glad the pie was to your taste! Help yourself to a portion whenever you feel like it.

    Again, thanks to all who've read and commented.

    Live and be well - H

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    This was Hawkman's very first post on the NitLet. Look at how far he's come -- but he showed lots of talent coming right out of the gate, which some of us (ahem!) might have been too blind to see at the time. Well,we all know what Billy Wilder said about hindsight-- it's always 20-20.

    A bit chagrined to see myself still spewing the same stuff (that's a lot of alliteration) all these years later. But in your original response back them you made an excellent point:

    you must be aware that people’s speech (and dialect) patterns change, depending on whom they are addressing. They degenerate most when interacting with intimates and are more contrived and measured with strangers. This accounts for Mr. Mac’s speech patterns when addressing the weird brothers and more regional expression with his wife and business partners. When performed by actors, their natural rhythms and inflections would, in any case, disguise any such minor failings on my part.
    This is a sociological fact. It's called "code-switching." When applied to teenagers, it refers to the young person's ability to use one mode of speech for parents, another for teachers, a third mode for his peers and so on, and as such, it is considered an indicator of intelligence.

    I heard about code-switching years ago from a speech therapist when I worked in a pre-school. You can read more about it in David Foster Wallace's essay on language in his book of essays called Consider the Lobster.

    I'm glad I was able to find this!

    Auntie

    PS So-- it wasn't 5 years ago that you wrote this, but actually 15! See, you were young.
    (And you'll always be younger than yours fooly.)
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 01-17-2015 at 11:57 PM.

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