He arrives at the spot in front of me, the spot that was recently filled by a pretty brunette that i had been speaking to, and lays a hand on my shoulder, he squeezes gently." Do you know that girl?" There is an attempt at menace coming from his clenched teeth, though too many years at a British public school have pretty much ensured that this man will never be able to menace anyone once he opens his mouth. The reply is predictable and flows from my tongue easily "Get your fucking hand off my shoulder!" My voice is unrecognisable to its master even as i feel my mouth and tongue move in unison to create the words. The anger present is intoxicating and has subdued the alcohol flowing through my system alongside the now all powerful adrenaline that has already taken the decision as to what i am going to do next.
My voice is a quiet rasp and is barely audible even to myself though Macbeth hears it. He takes a look at his friends with a smile on his face as he contemplates and then shrugs off any potential consequences that may ensue from ignoring my warning. He gets as far as opening his mouth to speak before the adrenaline takes control of my body. My overweight five feet five inches responds to the commands issued by the brain. My left arm comes up and over his right removing his right hand from my shoulder and safely securing it inside my armpit, simultaneously my right hand engulfs Macbeth's face with my two strongest fingers entering each eye socket, the rest of my hand is spread evenly around the rest of the face and somewhat resembles the impregnating alien from the film of the same name.
My body has twisted once i have a grip of him and, keeping his right arm pinned in my armpit i twist my body to the left forcing him to lose his balance, yet with my hand on his face i control where he lands and am kneeling on top of him as he does so. He seems to forget that his punching hand is trapped as i feel him attempt to use it but it is too late as my own right hand has left his face to form a fist which i am using to repeatedly punch him in the face with.
On the second punch i feel the bones in the nose break, then there is a third and a fourth and a fifth. There would have been a sixth and most likely a seventh had there not been a scream from directly behind me. I stop pummelling him and look down at the bloody mass that was once a face. I make the mistake of looking up and seeing a mass of horrified nay terrified party goers, this Duncan rather appears to have rewritten the play.
My eyes unwittingly search out the real villain of the story but Lady Macbeth is out of sight, she will probably resurface with some tale of woe once it is safe to do so, however at this point in time i decide that it is probably time to leave. I get myself up an roughly push through the crowd, certain that at any moment a bottle is going to break itself on the back of my head. Nothing happens and i safely make it to the door of the rooftop on which the party was taking place before i so rudely put a stop to it. Worried nevertheless, i grab an empty bottle of beer on the way out just in case.
I run down the stairs to the exit, two at a time, three at a time an entire staircase at a time, the adrenaline forces me ever further, ever faster, eventually i hit the bottom of the fashionable apartment block on the northernmost point of Rehov Dizengoff. I start to run. I run down the street, I fly down the street thinking of the hundred calls that were being made to the police the instant the snobs at the party recovered from the shock of seeing a man beaten to a pulp by another half his size. I fly past Dizengoff and Ben Gurion noting the shuttered sandwich kiosk to my left as i do so. I run on past the steimatsky to my right and i keep running, darting across side roads without waiting for traffic lights and diving through knots of party goers on their way to or from the evenings entertainment.
I run until i reach the fountain at the top of dizengoff, the one that offers opportunities for escape in all directions. I stop for a moment to gather my thoughts. There are no police sirens within earshot and the adrenaline begins to fade from my body. I look down at my hands, at my clothes, there is blood on my fist, it is mine from where the skin has been broken by Macbeth's teeth. I look at my blue shirt which is covered with blood from Macbeth, my light beige chinos are also covered with splatter from my would be assassin.
the usual group of punks have assembled themselves at the fountain to get drunk and participate in their usual antisocial nonsense. They begin to take an interest in the bloodstained Englishman standing in the centre of their domain. A burst of speed and the Englishman is gone down a sidestreet, running past a post office and into streets with nothing but rows of shitty bouhaus architecture.
I wander around to the back of one of the building blocks and slump against the rear wall, i ask myself what on earth happened? Surveying the blood on my clothes and for the first time feeling the pain in my right hand the implications of my actions hit me. Waves of nausea almost induce vomiting but it is the regret that hurts the most, the regret that sends hot tears burning their way down my face. Making me ask myself how it could be that less than a minute's worth of actions have irrevocably altered the course of my life.
Still crying for Macbeth, or for myself or for the brunette whose shocked eyes haunted my memory i rose from my slump and walked home to await the consequences of my actions.