A/N: Here's chapter three - right on schedule! This one's got a fair bit of Scottish slang (stolen most lovingly from Trainspotting). Also, there are a few Macbeth in-jokes... if that's even the right word. You'll see.

Also... the criminal characters act like nobility because they think they're more important than they actually are. On some level, they all believe themselves to be modern thanes. It's quite silly.

Hardly three hours after their fantastical disappearance, the three hippies returned to the alley behind the pub.

"How have you been, sisters?" asked the Dreadlock Hippie.

"Bored, to be honest," replied the Fat Hippie, quickly adding: "I did steal some candy from a child, though."

Not to be outdone, the Teeth Hippie hissed: "I hath taken a from a sailors wife some chestnuts. Old crone, she calleth me, give me back the chestnuts."

"Did you?" asked the Fat Hippie.

"No."

The Dreadlock Hippie sighed dramatically. "Lovely. Now, Macbeth shall be here soon."

"And…?" quoth the Fat Hippie.

Again, the Dreadlock Hippie sighed. "We've much to tell him.

Not a half mile away, two young men ambled down the alley towards the pub. They were both cleanshaven, casual, tired-eyed, and as thin as girls. These were the type of men who'd joined football gangs as children. Men who knew how to fight, yet had an air of pettiness to them. They listened to the Clash, yet didn't understand the politics. They were ordinary - if mildly moronic - blokes.

Their names were Ewan Macbeth and Dave Banquo.

The former always claimed that he looked like Paul Weller. Indeed, he sort of did… just like 75% of men from the UK. His thin, inky black hair was straight and barely long enough to cover his ears, and his eyes were an oddly murky shade of blue. Unlike Weller, he wasn't at all Mod. He usually wore beat-up jeans, sneakers, band t-shirts, and a black leather jacket he'd inherited from a mate. As a result he looked more like a weird rocker. Or, perhaps, a 'mocker' (to quote the great and glorious Ringo Starr).

The latter had a sort of 'budget punk' look. He'd the spiked hair, motorcycle boots, and a fine collection of offensive shirts - including the 'tits shirt', which was a t-shirt with a photo of some girl's breasts on it. He also wore safety pins the way some people wear earrings. Then there was the alleged tattoo he'd given himself at age sixteen. He'd carved the phrase "lust for life" into his left forearm with a pocket knife, then covered the wound with coal dust. This resulted in a painful and hideous infection. Years later a rather gruesome scar still remained. It wasn't attractive. Even worse, it made it harder for him to find a good vein with all that scarring in the way. As a result his hands were covered with track marks.

Happy as a pair of Dickensian pickpockets, the two young men waltzed there way down the alley - never noticing the trio of hippies. Soon enough they stood in front of door.

"So, why are we enterin' the back way?" Dave asked, turning towards his friend.

Macbeth shrugged. "They're aw really proud of me, man. It's really awkward n' Ah dinnae want people makin' a big fuss."

"Hey, yer the reason we won," Dave pointed out.

"Ah wudnae huv been able tae do it withoot ye!"

"Ah coulnae have done it withoot you if Ah wis in yer situation. We belong together - wir a team, ma laddie."

"Ah luv ye, too..."

Then, there was an extremely awkward silence. The two men stared at each other in horror.

"Wir startin' tae sound like queers, whae wi' aw thi' lovey-dovey stuff," Dave said with an almost-chuckle.

"Aye. The part where ye sais 'why are we enterin' the back way' sounded bad, too."

"Ah hadnae noticed thit, likesay…"

Macbeth's white skin turned tomato red. "Sorry."

Before Dave Banquo could reply, the three hippies revealed themselves.

"Hail Macbeth!" they cried.

Poor Macbeth jumped, then muttered: "Shite. Ah dinnae even ken these men!"

"Are the' men?" his friend whispered back.

"Hail Macbeth, Dealer of Glamis! Hail Macbeth, Dealer of Cawdor! Hail Macbeth, King!"

"At least they likes ye, man."

"Whae are you?" Macbeth asked, staring fearfully at the hippies.

"Hail Banquo! Father of Kings!"

Dave grinned boyishly. "The' like me, too!

"Hail! Hail! Hail to Both!"

"Please, explain whae ye mean! Ah am the Dealer of Glamis, aye - but Ah dinnae ever go near Cawdor. That's Macdonald's territory."

"It was. Ye defeated him, Macbeth. It may be yers now," Dave pointed out.

Then, without warning, the three prophetic hippies faded away.

"They'v goin' away... "

Banquo: Aye. We both need a drink. Actually, many drinks. C'moan.

Macbeth: Did they say Ah'm goin' tae be king? They did. Dealer ay Glamis, dealer ay Cawdor…

Banquo: C'moan.

And so, he led Macbeth into the pub. Right away far too many people spotted them. Lennox rushed over, then bowed.

"Shite," Macbeth hissed.

"The King has received news of your success, Ewan Macbeth. He'd like you to sit beside him now," Lennox declared.

The two young men all but dragged to a table... Duncan's table, to be more specific. They sat down sheepishly, both feeling like guilty schoolboys. After bowing (again!) Lennox went to buy another round of drinks.

"And there he is! How good it is to see you. My son tells me trails of Macdonald's blood were left in the grass of the park," Duncan cried, beaming.

"Malcolm was right, Ah guess." Macbeth chuckled nervously. "He's a fine lad, a fine wee fighter."

Duncan smiled vaguely. "Say thank you, Malcolm."

"Thank you."

Then, Duncan turned to Macbeth. "Because of your bravery, Macbeth, I've decided to award you the territory of the dreadful traitor you defeated."

The young man's eyes widened. "So they wir right!"

At this, Macduff raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Nobody." Dave replied. "The lad's tired, that's aw. Right, Macbeth?"

"Ah should tell Susan aboot this. She's ma girlfriend, Ah've goat tae tell her stuff," Macbeth said, dazed.

He then began to stand up - though Dave stopped him, softly saying: "You can tell her later. C'mon, man, just relax for a wee while."

Macduff stood up. "I'll go tell her."

Nobody bothered to comment so, without further ado, Macduff left. After a bit of awkward silence Duncan, Malcolm, Lennox, and Ross start talking about something very important - probably football. Now, Dave Banquo and Ewan Macbeth were free to whisper between themselves.

"Ah cannae believe those hippies wir right. It's weird, man," Macbeth muttered solemnly.

Dave shrugged. "They probably overheard Duncan talkin'."

"Why did they call me king? That's really botherin' me, ken? There's only one king around here... and it's Malcolm, nae me, who'll be replacin' him when he's dead."

At this, Dave laughed. "If he ever dies."

"He will one day. Most people dae."

"He doesnae seem like th' type who ever will. Can ye picture life withoot him? It wudnae be right, man. It jist wudnae be right..."

"This is an awkward conversation to be havin' wi' him sitting right there..."

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