Call Her Marlo: “Something Rotten” — Part Two

Here’s where we last left off. And here’s more of the adaptation–specifically the adaptation of this into this:

JUST CALL HER MARLO
“Something Rotten”
Part Two

By Debbi Mack

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 to a palatial home from which loud music blared. A chimney jutted above the shingles, gables, and window trimmings. I pictured a roaring fire, kindled with spare money.

A sizable rectangle of pavement parked solid with high-dollar vehicles fronted the house. I found a spot just big enough to squeeze my roadster between a gleaming Porsche and some vintage monstrosity with a German name and enough chrome to cause retina burn. 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 could also see more clearly why Hamlet would suspect his uncle of being a murderer. If Hamlet’s father had owned all this and a lovely wife, why shouldn’t a brother share the wealth?

As I took a gander at people cavorting around 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.”

“Name’s Marlo,” I said. “Hamlet invited me.”

Tall, Dark, and Dumb shook his head.

“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 pee.

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

As I considered my next move, a man in his late fifties, wearing a blue velour tracksuit and covered with bling, appeared. A woman about the same age, 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 odd cut of her hair, likely 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. “You need to get on that.”

“Sorry, Claud—” Rosencrantz stopped mid-word, 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 muttered. “Now. And get … it done.”

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 the King and Queen.

“Hi,” I said, extending a hand toward the couple. Claudius grasped it briefly, then 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 drawled, managing to make “pleased” a two-syllable word.

“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.

I figured Claudius was poised to deliver a semi-polite brush-off. However, en route to wherever we were supposed to talk, a woman in her late twenties, garbed in a flowing white gown, appeared. Dancing to music in her head, she approached with sinuous, waif-like movements.

She paused 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 glared at her, quietly fuming. Gertrude’s facelift was tested further as she scowled at the young woman.

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

“Interesting name,” I observed.

Claudius shot me a look that suggested he was fully aware of Ophelia’s not-so-solid mental state. “Friend of Hamlet’s,” he said, almost apologetically.

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

Claudius drew himself up. “Somewhere in the crowd.” He gestured vaguely toward the back yard, where the raucous partiers continued to rollick to music blasting from oversized speakers that managed to survive since the disco era.

We were interrupted by the sudden appearance of an intense young man. He pointed a shaking finger at Claudius. “You!” he said. “You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Claudius seemed to shrink, cowering before the younger man. “No, Laertes! I didn’t. Really!”

“Laertes?” I said.

“Ophelia’s brother,” Claudius whispered.

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

As if the mention of her brother had been a summons, Ophelia materialized from around the side of the house, singing loudly in a tuneless sing-song. “Oh, treachery! Oh, treason! Oh, death, death, DEATH! Be not proud.”

Gertrude followed close on her heels. “Ophelia, please,” she begged.

And they think Hamlet’s nuts, I thought.

“Laertes, my good man. Have I not been your good man?” Claudius continued to plead his case. As an afterthought, he added, “Oh, Ms. Margo, help yourself to a cocktail.”

“Sorry,” I said, with R and G firmly in mind. “Gotta run. Rain check?”

*****

More to come!