"Oh evil, Macbeth, thou are a mere bunion of my foot," dear Lady Macbeth dost sayeth, while twisting a will of the wisp betwixt her future bloodied fingers.
Macbeth, the once and future leader, the king terrapin of his Scotland if you will, snarked his eyes toward the glimmer of the lake. The day was vile underneath cloak of sun and temperate climate, and the Mrs. irritated him to the point of self-mutilation.
"But murder is the muddle of all time," he responded with a cataclysmic-sort of sigh, and then he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep his tongue from further clacking against them.
"I shall write it out for you then, and leave the galleycat upon the quilts of your bed: the bed I am no longer a part of." She stood and swished her skirts back toward the castle, leaving Macbeth to wonder what she was talking about and if she'd meant to say, "alley cat."
There's a lot to be said for brevity.
Scoring to come.