The King of the Wastes (Or the Armageddon Tyrant)

“I’ve never seen a day quite like this,” Macbeth said. He glanced back. The battlefield was behind them, a smothering waste that stretched out to the ancient ruins beyond. “Horrific.”

The great ancient ruins of the Old World stretched up to the sky. Towering structures that now cast a growing shadow over the bodies now joining the earth beneath them.

“But the victory is ours, the Gods be praised,” Banquo responded.

“True,” Macbeth said. “At last, this horrific rebellion is done.” He paused a moment, confused, but continued speaking. “It has been committed to history, where it belongs.”

“How far is it back to base? I don’t know about you but I could…”

Before Banquo could finish his thought, three strange beings walk before them. They were gray, with large black eyes, bald heads, and bright silver shirts.

“What are those?” Banquo asked in shock.

Macbeth tried to hide a smile.

“So strange in their look and attire,” his companion continued. “They don’t look like inhabitants of the Earth.”

Macbeth broke and let out a loud laugh. He turned his back to the sight and wandered stage right. “Jesus…” he stammered out between wheezes.

“Cut!” a voice from the theater seats shouted.

Brennen Jacobs stood up from the center folding chair in front of the small stage, script in hand.

“What the hell was that, John?” he demanded to know.

Macbeth was finally getting his runaway laughter under control. It’d been so loud and catching that even William, a true professional playing brave Banquo, had begun to giggle.

“Alright, alright…” Brennen said. “Everyone – get the chuckles out of your system.”

“Is that really what we’re having the Weird Sisters look like?” John asked, his faux proper accent disappearing into his native American.

“Well, they’ll actually be coming out of a UFO prop when the show is all ready,” Brennen said matter-of-factly. “It’ll be pretty impressive.”

“I’m sure,” John said, wiping a tear. “Just like the ‘impressive’ backdrop you painted for this show.” He gestured to the rather basic painting of a ruined city skyline, complete with skyscrapers covered in vines, and abandoned cars on otherwise empty roads.

Brennen winced at that. He’d been quite proud of the work he’d done on that backdrop.

“Also,” John continued, holding up his own copy of the script. “You had me use ‘horrific’ two lines in a row. You couldn’t come up with another word there?”

“It’s meant to be repetitive,” Brennen explained. “Hits home how… horrific it is.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Mmhm.”

“Everyone. Listen, we’re still early in the process for this show,” Brennen spoke up loud enough for all the cast and crew to hear. “It’s early, and there are some things I am still working out. But rest assured, we will get there together. I believe in this show. If you don’t, then you can leave.”

“Will you still pay us if we leave?” William asked.

“This is a professional production. You don’t do the work; you don’t get paid.” Brennen folded his arms. None of the players moved.

“Good. Now, everyone back to starting positions and run the scene again.”

The three rookie walk-ons wearing gray paint, black goggles and cheap headcaps shuffled back offstage.

They ran through the scene again, this time with less laughter from the actors. It was a scene Brennen himself had written. The whole play was the conclusion of weeks of work. Not just writing, but casting, costuming, and, of course, creating the backdrop. He was proud of the work so far, and the production was finally starting to take shape.

Just as the three aliens began to tell their predictions to Macbeth and Banquo, the creaky door in the back of the small theater swung open. A middle-aged man tried to sneak in, but the door had already interrupted the performance. Everyone turned around at the noise.

“Sorry, I’m Rob Lucas,” the man said. “I’m here to meet…” he checked a small notebook. “Brennen Jacobs.”

“Fantastic. You’re the guy!” He stood up and told everyone to take five.

After a handshake and the usual pleasantries, the older man took in the cramped performance space.

“So, what kind of show are you guys doing up here?” he asked.

“Oh, we’re putting on our own rendition of that Scottish Play,” Brennen answered with pride. “We’re sorta doing our own unique spin on it.”

“The Scottish Play?” Mr. Lucas asked.

“The famous one that’s bad luck to name while in a theater, of course.”

Mr. Lucas frowned, then suddenly seemed to remember something. “You mean Macbeth?”

“Shh!” Brennen silenced him. “Don’t say the name here! Only actors on stage while playing it can say it. We can’t do it in here.”

“Right…” Mr. Lucas failed to hide his eyeroll. He glanced at the stage and saw three actors in gray alien getups hanging out in front of the ruined city backdrop. “So, what kind of spin are you putting on Mac… on the play?”

Brennen lit up. “Oh, it’s a cool idea I’ve wanted to do since I was in high school!” He set the scene, unable to hide his excitement. “We’re doing a post-apocalyptic retelling of it!”

“Huh,” Mr. Lucas said.

“Yeah! So, the set-up is that centuries after World War III, a new civilization arose from the ashes. But war and rebellion are the law of the land, so it takes strong leaders to keep the peace. In the midst of all this, aliens visit Earth and start to study us, learn why humanity destroyed itself.

“That’s my take on the Weird Sisters,” Brennen explained. “They aren’t witches, but aliens! And their prophecy isn’t telling the future, but seeing how the humans they encounter, Macbeth and Banquo, react to the prediction. To see what the humans do with that kind of info. It’s how the aliens test them. Pretty clever twist on the idea, right?”

“That is definitely… something,” Lucas answered. His unconvinced smile went unnoticed by the director.

“I’m calling it the King of the Wastes! Or maybe the Armageddon Tyrant. Kinda going back and forth on that.”

“Gotcha,” Lucas said. “The theater here decided to give you a shot? Must have been a hell of a pitch you gave them.”

“Well, my friend Holly owns the building and runs both the bar downstairs and this little theater for local shows. It gives people like myself a chance to get our work out there, since the professional scene in this town is so damn competitive and cliquey.”

“Gotcha,” the older man said again. He shook his head but kept a professional air.

“What I need from you is the UFO.”

“The UFO?”

“Half of one, anyways,” Brennen said. “For the three aliens to come out of when they arrive.” He went on to explain what he was looking for in size and shape.

“Well, the project you’re asking for shouldn’t be too difficult.” Lucas said, double checking his notes. “Shouldn’t be difficult at all.”

“That’s great! Thank you so much!” Brennen excitedly shook the man’s hand again. “I’ll make sure you get an invite to the premiere!”

“Just make sure the check clears, and I’ll be all set.”

“Outstanding! Thank you so much for your help on this.” Brennen was downright giddy. “With this prop, we have everything to actually finish this production!”

The dystopian backdrop of the stage began to rattle, rocking back and forth with increasing force for several seconds. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Both men stared at the stage.

“Hey, who did that?” Brennen demanded.

All the actors said it wasn’t them. When their director gave them a nonbelieving frown, John spoke up.

“Seriously, man. It wasn’t us. No one touched it.” The rest of the crew nodded in agreement.

“Huh,” Mr. Lucas cocked his head. “Maybe there is something to that curse after all.” He chuckled a bit. “I’ll get started on this UFO for you. As soon as the money is sent.”

“No worries,” Brennen said, studying his cast and crew suspiciously. “Nothing is going to stop this show.”

*

The rehearsal went relatively well. Brennen had to be a little harsh on his actors to get them to take the dialogue seriously, but he got results. Thankfully, the backdrop didn’t shake again, but the fact that none of the crew took responsibility for it bothered the director. Were they all in on it? Do they all not believe in this show like I do?

The troubling thought was still on his mind when he locked up the theater.

He’d spent a couple hours going through his script, making notes on any needed edits. John had had a few ideas for changes. They weren’t the worst ideas, but this was Brennen’s show, not John’s.

It was nearly midnight when he finally strolled out of Holly’s building. Even with the streetlights on, there was a dark, lonely feeling in Brennen. He shrugged it off and headed toward his apartment.

Brennen was barely a block from the theater, passing by an alleyway, when a dumpster began to rattle. Despite its size and weight, the dumpster moved with growing ferocity. Just like the backdrop.

“Alright, enough!” Brennen cried. “Who’s doing this?” He demanded to know, running behind the dumpster, only to find nothing. When he rushed back around to the front, there was still no one there. “Who?”

No one was around. The alley was empty. The street was barren. And then the dumpster stopped moving.

After a moment of frustration, he realized the answer was easy. In a flash, the top of the dumpster was thrown open, but inside was the same. Empty.

“What the hell?”

Brennen backed away from the dumpster, still searching for – hoping for – someone to pop up and yell surprise. But the night was quiet. I think I should keep heading home.

With every step he took, there seemed to be an answering sound or bang coming out of the shadows. As his pace increased, so did the noises. Before long, the pace became an outright sprint.

As soon as Brennen slammed the door to his apartment building’s lobby shut behind him, he collapsed to the ground, out of breath.

“What was that?” he said breathlessly.

He hadn’t expected a response, but an answer came all the same. In the dark and silent lobby, there came a great crash with thunder and lightning. From the shadow behind the front desk, three things entered the room.

These were not bug-eyed aliens, gray or otherwise, nor did they resemble any kind of witch Brennen had seen before. These were… something else. Long, crooked arms pulled massive bodies closer to him. When they spoke, their mouths were far too large, even for their large, round bodies.

“Where the place?” asked the first creature.

“Upon an apartment lobby, sister,” answered the second.

“Here to meet Brennen Jacobs,” added the third.

All three stared at the young man. Their eyes were completely white. One by one, each of them pointed a long, bony finger at him.

Brennen tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat.

“We are not here to hail. You or others,” the first said.

“No, a warning brings us here,” the second said.

“A warning for you, Brennen.” The third.

“Brennen the desperate.”

“Brennen the cliché.”

“The… well, let’s just say a better actor than writer.” The third sister received a slap from the second, seemingly for breaking character.

“Your Macbeth is lesser, not greater,” the first continued.

“Your story is childish.”

“And your prose sucks. You didn’t even use iambic pentameter.” The third sister received another slap.

“What…” Brennen squeaked out. “What do you want?”

The three beings exchanged confused glances.

“We are the Weird Sisters.”

“The Weyward Sisters.”

“The real deal.” There wasn’t a slap this time. Instead, the Sister things inched their way forward, closing in around Brennen.

The man struggled to get back onto his feet, but one of the Sisters grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him back down.

“What do you want?” he screamed.

“Our story told right!” the three creatures all cried at once.

“What?”

“Your new tale moves ahead,” the first began.

“It may yet see the limelight.”

“And it sucks too much for us to let people see it.” No slap, instead the first two sisters grunted in agreement.

“A name is all most have.”

“A good reputation belongs to less.”

“We’re embarrassed for you.”

Brennen looked from one sister to the others and back. “What, huh, what are you talking about?”

The Weird Sisters all sighed loudly.

“Rewrite your version of our story and make it good!” they all spoke in a single voice. “We will not suffer such marks against our good name! The story of the Weird Sisters and the tragedy of Macbeth is a sacred thing. You will not be allowed to besmirch it!”

“Change it or abandon it,” the first Sister said.

“Choose either, it matters not to us,” said the second.

“You don’t want to know what we did to Bill Shakespeare to make sure he got it right,” the third added.

“Wait… did you…” Brennen mumbled.

In a final burst of wind and angry voices, three again spoke at once. “Remember we are always here. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air!” Another crash of thunder, and the Sisters disappeared into thin air.

Brennen was once again alone in the lobby.

Breathing heavily, he spun around but found no sign that the creatures had ever been there. Feeling some relief, he sat on the ground and grabbed the scattered pages of his script. “It’s not bad. It can’t be that bad,” he muttered. “It can’t be.”

Brennen studied the pages of his work closely. Maybe the story is a bad one. But I’m not a bad writer. Just need to come up with a better idea.

“I know what to do!” he declared, standing and holding up the pages. “Yeah, Macbeth was a bad choice. It’s cursed, that’s the only reason! I’ll do a dystopian version of The Tempest instead!”