Eugenia and Avery limp across the finish line of Macbeth, Act Five, Scene Eight, fueled by lukewarm coffee, oat milk betrayal, and the righteous belief that Shakespeare owes them compensation.

The scene opens with Macbeth refusing to die like a “Roman fool,” which the hosts interpret as peak coward energy from a man who has spent the entire play detonating everyone else’s lives. Macduff storms in with “Turn, hell-hound, turn,” bringing an aggression level that is wildly inconsiderate of anyone’s morning routine. Macbeth tries to act like he has been politely avoiding Macduff, a claim Eugenia compares to dodging someone you ghosted by pretending to study organic kale in public.

Then comes the centerpiece betrayal: Macbeth’s “charmed life” logic hinges on the prophecy that no one “of woman born” can kill him. Eugenia is ready to file a complaint with basic biology, until Shakespeare drops the loophole: Macduff was “untimely ripped” from his mother’s womb. Avery spirals at the realization that five acts of misery culminate in a legalistic twist involving early modern obstetrics and semantic fine print that Macbeth never bothered to clarify with the witches.

Macbeth briefly tries the “I’m not fighting anymore” route, gets called a coward, and throws a tantrum about refusing to kneel to Malcolm, because apparently humility is only for people who did not commit regicide. The fight happens offstage, which the hosts find rude and cost-cutting in the worst way. We then get a brisk dose of stoic nobility as Siward learns of his son’s death with the emotional temperature of a flight cancellation notice.

Finally, Macduff returns carrying Macbeth’s head, and everyone immediately pivots into “Hail, King of Scotland” mode like a crowd cheering a bland opening act. Malcolm launches into administrative rebranding, announces new titles, invites everyone to Scone, and casually mentions Lady Macbeth’s offstage suicide, which leaves Eugenia and Avery furious about the uneven onscreen suffering and the complete absence of a trauma-processing intermission.

By the end, they agree the real tragedy is the audience’s ordeal: the prophecy loopholes, the abrupt coronation planning, the uncomfortable chair, the wrong room temperature, and the fact that Macbeth’s final downfall is less poetic justice and more “gotcha, C-section.” They sign off demanding reparations, a perfectly timed beverage, and a future episode about literally anything that does not involve Scottish succession or head-related imagery.

Eugenia and Avery are dragged, once again, into Macbeth Act 5, Scene 7, a scene that opens with immediate alarums and the kind of chaotic stage energy that should come with a content warning and a hydration station. Macbeth storms in complaining he has been “tied to a stake” and must fight “bear-like,” which sends the hosts into a passionate defense of bears as dignified boundary-setters who do not deserve to be dragged into Scottish workplace drama.

Before anyone can recover from the metaphor, Young Siward barges in with all the etiquette of a spam phone call and demands Macbeth’s name like he is entitled to a personal introduction mid-battle. Macbeth treats his identity like a reality-show reveal, Young Siward reacts with maximum theatrical outrage, and the two promptly start sword-fighting, which Avery finds exhausting to even imagine. Young Siward is killed, and Macbeth immediately congratulates himself with the extremely unserious flex that his opponent was “born of woman,” as if that is not… literally everyone.

Then the scene doubles down on noise and emotional chaos. Macduff enters hunting Macbeth, loudly demanding the tyrant show his face and re-litigating his grief in the middle of a battlefield. Eugenia calls it attention-seeking; Avery calls it decorum failure; both agree the constant shouting is a direct attack on their nervous systems. Macduff refuses to waste his “unbattered” sword edge on random soldiers, insisting it is Macbeth or nothing, which the hosts interpret as revenge-driven main-character syndrome with a side of classism.

Just when it feels like something might actually resolve, Malcolm and Old Siward appear to deliver bland victory updates and tell everyone to enter the castle like it is a casual restaurant walk-in. And then, of course, more exits. More “Exeunt.” More emotional abandonment. Eugenia and Avery end the episode exactly where Shakespeare leaves them: overstimulated, under-validated, furious about the lack of closure, and ready to file for compensation in truffle fries, cashmere, and a written apology from every institution that ever called this “culturally significant.”

Eugenia and Avery drag themselves into Macbeth Act 5, Scene 6 at an hour that should be illegal, only to discover that Malcolm’s big tactical masterstroke is, once again, “everyone carry branches and pretend we are landscaping.” They are forced to process drum-and-colours chaos, bough-based “leafy screens,” and the kind of loud, visually aggressive staging that would get a modern venue shut down for sensory assault.

Malcolm orders the army to throw down their leafy screens like it is a casual wardrobe change, and Avery immediately questions the labor practices, the splinter exposure, and the total lack of HR involvement. Eugenia points out that Old Siward is basically being voluntold into combat with a cheerful “fare you well,” which is not a goodbye, it is a workplace safety violation. Siward’s son is also dragged into the front line, which feels less “right noble son” and more “nepotism meets trauma during a gap year.”

Meanwhile, Malcolm and Macduff keep the safer, prestige-heavy part of the plan for themselves, delegating risk while reserving glory like the most insufferable middle management duo in history. Macduff then adds trumpets to the mix, loudly announcing “blood and death” at top volume while the army is supposedly trying to be stealthy. Eugenia calls it strategy malpractice, Avery calls it noise pollution and ecosystem harassment, and both agree that if you must stage a siege, a strongly worded text and a block button would have been cleaner.

The scene delivers no action, only posturing, percussion, and a sudden exit that leaves everyone carrying imaginary sap on imaginary costumes with absolutely no closure. Naturally, it ends with an “Exeunt” that feels less like a stage direction and more like Shakespeare personally walking out of the room mid-conversation.