August's Short Fiction and More

Aug 22, 2023

Hi! Just to refresh your memory, here’s Part One of “Just Call Her Marlo: Something Rotten.”

I adapted this from a screenplay I wrote. I think it’s obvious whose work inspired rhis! :)

So, here’s Part Two! :)

I drove my vintage roadster from my humble offices in the low-rent district to the posh trappings of Elsinore Heights. Whizzing past high-dollar homes with golf courses for lawns, I eventually arrived at the address Hamlet had provided.

The winding driveway led me up toward a palatial home from which loud music blared. About a third of the place housed the owners’ cars. A chimney jutted above the shingles, gables, and window trimmings. I pictured a roaring fire, kindled with spare money.

A sizable square of pavement covered with high-dollar vehicles fronted the house. I found a spot just big enough for my roadster. As I approached what was obviously a party in progress, beautiful, semi-dressed people meandered my way, now and then. Many of them sloppy drunk or high, hanging onto each other, neither able to disconnect without falling.

Hamlet had mentioned that his Uncle Claudius was part of a gang called The Danes. The name seemed ridiculous. But now I felt like I was walking into a rap video.

I was also starting to understand clearly why Hamlet would suspect his uncle of being a murderer.

As I took a gander at people in various stages of undress milling about the pool, drinking or smoking whatever, two oversized males approached me. One was a tall, dark, and stupid-looking brute. His companion was just as tall, less dark, and twice as stupid-looking.

Mr. Dark said, “That’s far enough, sister.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me,” I said. “Are you Rosencrantz?”

The man peered at me. “Says who?”

“And your friend must be Guildenstern.”

Rosencrantz drew himself up. “How would you know that?” Guildenstern followed up by saying, “Uh.”

I pulled out my phone and displayed the MySpace page where I’d spotted their images.

Rosencrantz turned to Guildenstern. “You were supposed to shut that account down.”

Guildenstern did a brief dance that suggested either embarrassment or a need to urinate.

Rosencrantz turned back to me. “You aren’t welcome here. You’re not on the King’s guest list.”

King? Seriously?

I tried to maneuver around Rosencrantz’s all-too-fleshy mass, but a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt held me in place.

I stepped back. Rosencrantz tried to stare me down, while Guildenstern hovered behind him.

“How come guys like you always come in pairs?” I asked.

Rosencrantz upped his stare intensity to laser beam. Guildenstern seemed to think about how to answer me.

As I considered my next move, a man in his late 50s, wearing a blue velour tracksuit and covered with bling, appeared. A woman in her early 50s, wearing a modest sundress, held his arm. Her face was creased with faint lines made fainter by what looked like a recent nip-and-tuck, judging from the cut of her hair to hide the incisions.

The couple stopped beside Dumb and Dumber. “Aren’t you two supposed to be on the way to New England?” The man spoke with authority. Displeased authority at that. “You need to get on that.”

“Sorry, Claud …” Rosencrantz started to reply and stopped short to correct himself. “Your Highness. We were just about to do that when this dame tried to crash the party.”

Hamlet’s Uncle/Stepfather Claudius bestowed a withering look at the two doofuses. “Go,” he said. “Now. And get … the Chinese watch.”

Guildenstern leaned toward Rosencrantz and, in a stage whisper said, “I think he means … you know who.”

“I know what he means!” Rosencrantz snapped. “Let’s go.”

As the Dynamic Duo moved off, I approached Mr. And Mrs. Hamlet or Whatever.

“Hi,” I said, extending a hand toward the couple. Claudius grasped it briefly, the dropped it like a hot potato. “Hamlet invited me. I hope that’s okay. My name is Marlo Wiley, but please just call me Marlo.

Claudius’ gaze raked over me. “My apologies for the inconvenience. I’m Claudius, but all my friends call me King. This is my wife, Gertrude.”

Gertrude tested the limits her face job imposed by stretching her mouth into a slightly wider grin. “Pleased to meet you,” she uttered.

“So … those two guys,” I said. “What a pair, huh?”

Claudius’ expression turned somber. “Good help is hard to find.”

“Clearly,” I said. “Is there a place where we could talk privately? It concerns Hamlet’s father.”

“Shame about him, isn’t it?” Claudius stated.

Wouldn’t know it to look at you, I thought.

Claudius seemed ready to give me a barely polite brush-off, when a woman in her late 20s, wearing a flowing white gown, appeared. She approached us with sinuous movements that looked like dance steps to music in her head.

She stopped roughly three feet away, where she bent and twirled to her own private soundtrack.

“Death.” The young woman spit the word and let it hang there a moment. “Oh, deadly, deadly death. It’s such a deadly thing.”

Claudius stared at her, quietly fuming. Gertrude’s facelift was tested further as she scowled at the woman.

“Oh, dear God,” she said. “Come, Ophelia.” She rushed to the young woman’s side and led her away, even as Ophelia continued to prance about and talk of death.

“Interesting name,” I observed.

Claudius shot me a look that suggested Ophelia’s mental state might not be as solid as he was. “Friend of Hamlet’s,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Speak of the devil, where is the little prince?”

Claudius drew himself up. “He’s probably somewhere in the crowd.” He gestured vaguely toward the back yard, where the half-dressed partiers continued to rollick to music blasting from oversized speakers that managed to survive since the 1970s.

Then, an intense younger man ran up to us. He pointed a shaking finger at Claudius.

“You!” he said. “You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Claudius shrank and cowered before the younger man. “No, Laertes! I didn’t. Really!”

“Laertes?” I said.

“Ophelia’s brother,” Claudius replied.

That tore it for me. “Where do you people come up with these names?” I asked.

Ophelia then barged back toward us, singing madly.

In a tuneless sing-song, she said, “Oh, treachery! Oh, treason! Oh, death, death, DEATH! Be not proud.”

Gertrude reappeared and chased Ophelia about as she sang of death and danced.

“Ophelia, please,” Gertrude begged.

And they think Hamlet’s nuts, I thought.

“Look, Laertes. I’m sure you’ve been misinformed,” Claudius continued to plead his case. “Oh, Ms. Margo, help yourself to a cocktail.”