Okay...sorry that my reviews were deleted...sniff...but this story really needed to be redone; THIS is the final version that I turned in for my English class. I've had some complaints about Hamlet being OOC, but quite honestly, Shakespeare isn't really my forte and I mean this parody to be one in the sense of hilariously out of character (reread Hamlet and if you look at it the right way, it's quite easy to see him as completely insane...)
Horatio broke off and stared at the place where the ghost had disappeared, sighing deeply. "Break we our watch up; and by my advice, let us impart what we have seen tonight unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, this spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him, though I do not know why as he is already half-mad and a plague to the kingdom of Denmark. Do you consent," he continued, silently agreeing with the suppressed laughter in their expressions, "that we shall acquaint him with it, as needful in our loves, fitting our duty?"
Marcellus grinned. "Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know where we shall find him most conveniently."
AND THE PLAY BEGINS…
I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy. Even though he used to be my favorite uncle and brought me gifts and…
No, Hamlet, you hate the guy.
Who are you?
Am I schizophrenic?
Um…I suppose psychology hasn't been invented yet, has it?
No, it hasn't. We call it madness, or "ecstasy". Now get back to your thoughts.
Right. I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy. Wait; I already said this, didn't I? Frowning, Hamlet Prince of Denmark looked up. King Claudius had just mentioned his name.
"Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green, and that it us befitted to bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom to be contracted in one brow of woe, yet so far I hath pretended to be discreet and snatched the queen at the first possible chance while pretending it is only my duty. Yet the noblemen are so thickheaded that they do not see this. I shall talk loudly about the danger of Fortinbras and the importance of uniting together to defeat him while forgetting all about the fact that the King's death was rather suspicious…"
King Claudius glared at the intruder, whose partner was nervously eyeing the possible exits from the throne room. "Yes, what is it? Oh yes, Cornelius and Voltimand—" he snorted "—sorry, your name is amusing to me; here, take these articles back to old Norway."
"In that and all things will we show our duty." Cornelius and a rather offended Voltimand made a hasty exit from the extremely talkative king. Laertes, a timid-looking young man who looked as if he would rather die than approach the throne, was next in line. He cringed as Claudius opened his mouth and boomed jovially, "And now, Laertes, what's the news with you? I shall repeat the fact that I, and I alone, am the all-powerful ruler of Denmark while pretending to be fatherly to you. What wouldst you ask?"
"My dread…" Laertes squeaked. He coughed and cleared his throat violently before continuing on in a more normal tone. "My dread lord, your leave and favour to return to France."
"Have you your father's leave?"
"Yes, he hath my leave," wheezed what many of the foreign courtiers had assumed to be a pile of expensive cloth heaped next to the throne. Several wondered how the old man could breathe, let alone walk, while inside all that fabric.
"Very good. Then go. Now to Hamlet, my relation and my son."
I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy. Hamlet stepped forward, the smile on his face so obviously fake that the King recoiled at the hideous sight. Claudius made an effort to cover up his reaction by shifting around in his throne seat for a moment, then leaned forward. "How is it that the clouds still hang on you? You are thirty years old, after all…Gertrude, why isn't he moved out already?" he hissed to his wife, Hamlet's mother.
"I don't know, dearest." Gertrude turned back to Hamlet. "My dear son, please, please, for God's sake, get over your sorrow! Your father is gone! G-O-N-…um…I forgot, I'm a frail woman, I don't know how to spell!"
"Yes, Mother. I know that death is what happens to us all." Hamlet was rather enjoying the effect his smile was having on his uncle/stepfather, who was making it a point to look past his nephew's shoulder rather than at his face.
"Then why won't you stop whining about it?"
"Whining? I am not whining, Mother. I am merely obsessing." He struck a pose that would have made any overenthusiastic (and amateur) Shakespearean actor retire in shame. "It is not alone my exceedingly scary black clothes, good mother, nor forced breath due to my sob fests after dinner…and after tea, and breakfast, and—"
"Hamlet!" The Queen was quite alarmed to note the rate at which his voice was escalating in volume.
"I'm not finished! Nor the 'fruitful river of my eye', which is a disturbingly funny mental image, or the rejection of my face—no, I mean the dejectedness of my visage, together with every other possible form of grief you can imagine, including…"
"We don't want to know, Hamlet," Claudius interrupted desperately. "As your uncle, I understand that you want to mourn for your father, but you must know that he lost his father, who before him lost a father—did that make sense?—and neither of them acted like a stubborn mule like you are. You're acting like a child, when you really should be moved out by now—I mean, you're thirty, for crying out loud!—not that we don't want you here, and in fact you shouldn't go back to Wittenberg…"
Hamlet looked supremely confused at having been witness to the amazing feat of illegally combining sentences. Gertrude took advantage of his confusion, and leaned forward to look into her son's slightly-glazed eyes.
"Yes, Hamlet, your father and I beseech you, do not return to Wittenberg," she said very slowly.
"I shall in all my best obey you, madam," he replied, hoping that this was the right answer.
"Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply," Claudius said graciously. You dolt. "Come, let us go, my queen. Farewell, my son." With that, the royal family and courtiers made the highly unwise decision to leave Hamlet by himself.