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.

Eugenia and Avery are back in Macbeth Act 5, Scene 5, and once again Shakespeare refuses to give them a single scene where people eat brunch, communicate clearly, and heal with mimosas. Instead, they get a drafty castle, a siege, a mysterious “cry of women,” and Macbeth attempting to run a kingdom like it is a hostile coworking space.

Macbeth orders banners hung and tries to act unbothered about “famine and ague,” as if he is not the direct cause of Scotland’s ongoing crisis. Seyton delivers news with the warmth of a weather app, first identifying the disruptive crying, then returning with the bigger bomb: the Queen is dead. Macbeth responds with the emotional availability of a broken espresso machine, casually tossing out “She should have died hereafter,” which sends Eugenia into a full-on rage about grief scheduling, basic respect, and the audacity of dying during someone’s workday.

Then comes the centerpiece: Macbeth’s spiral into the famous “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” speech. Eugenia calls it repetitive, Avery calls it a cleaning problem, and both agree that “dusty death” sounds like something a robot vacuum could solve. Macbeth follows up with “Out, out, brief candle,” somehow managing to pick a fight with lighting itself, and declares life a noisy tale told by an idiot, which Avery notes is a bold stance for a man who murdered his way into the job and is now shocked the vibes are bad.

Enter a Messenger, because privacy is illegal in Shakespeare. The Messenger hesitates, Macbeth demands speed, and the news lands: Birnam Wood is moving toward Dunsinane. Macbeth immediately calls him a liar and threatens to hang him, because nothing says leadership like punishing staff for reporting reality. Eugenia points out that the witches’ prophecy was always a loophole buffet and Macbeth simply did not read the fine print. Avery adds that any competent lawyer would have flagged “until” as a red-alert clause.

By the end, Macbeth finally admits he is starting to doubt the “equivocation of the fiend,” which is roughly four murders too late, then tries to command the wind like it is an intern, and concludes they will die in armor because self-care is apparently banned in medieval Scotland. Eugenia and Avery sign off furious, under-caffeinated, and still denied the one thing they truly deserve: soft lighting, closure, and grapes.

Eugenia and Avery wanted Netflix rom-coms and reality dating show meltdowns. Instead, they get Macbeth Act 5, Scene 4, aka the moment Shakespeare makes an entire army commit to an outdoor team-building exercise with drums, colours, and a suspicious amount of forestry.

From the aggressively vague setting (“country near Dunsinane,” like it is a sketchy real estate listing) to the stage direction “a wood in view” (the least helpful location tag in human history), this scene immediately threatens their peace, their pores, and their brand. Malcolm announces the plan: every soldier must hew down a bough from Birnam Wood and carry it to hide the army’s true numbers. Eugenia calls it what it is: manual labor disguised as strategy, with a side of splinters and ruined manicures.

Avery spirals over the environmental impact and the lack of SPF, while Eugenia points out that if Malcolm wanted to “shadow the numbers,” he could have simply used a better angle and a filter. Instead, he chooses foliage-based catfishing, which they argue should be investigated as influencer fraud. Meanwhile, Siward asks what wood they are looking at like he has never heard of maps, and Menteith contributes peak background character energy by agreeing with everything and adding nothing.

Macduff drops in with dialogue that sounds like it was written to punish listeners with extra syllables, and the episode pauses to mourn the scene’s biggest omissions: no catering, no charcuterie, and Ross being present but denied a single line, which Eugenia labels toxic group dynamics.

Then it ends with the ultimate insult: “Exeunt, marching.” No goodbye, no closure, just more walking, more mud, and more cardio nobody consented to. Eugenia and Avery close out unified on three points: Birnam Wood is overrated, Malcolm should have hired a TaskRabbit, and if anyone asks them to carry a branch, their lawyers will be the first to arrive.

Eugenia and Avery arrive ready for brie and emotional stability, and instead get Wisconsin cheddar and Macbeth in full managerial meltdown mode. In Act 5, Scene 3, Macbeth paces around Dunsinane like a man who thinks he is immortal because a trio of witches gave him a loophole prophecy, and he takes that confidence out on everyone with a pulse, especially the terrified servant he humiliates with “cream-faced loon” energy that would get you fired in any decade with functioning HR.

The hosts break down Macbeth’s favorite hobby in this scene: ordering Seyton to fetch armor, declaring it unnecessary, insisting on it anyway, demanding it again, and generally vibrating with toddler-in-a-tiara entitlement while an entire invasion approaches. They also linger on the surprisingly bleak “yellow leaf” metaphor, because nothing says “I am thriving” like publicly comparing your reign to seasonal decay while insisting you are still untouchable.

Then comes the doctor, and the episode shifts from war room to customer service desk: Macbeth demands a cure for a “mind diseased,” wants guilt deleted like a corrupted file, and asks for trauma to be plucked out by force of royal impatience. The doctor, understandably, refuses to perform a medieval memory wipe and basically admits he would rather be anywhere else on earth than in this castle’s vibe swamp. Eugenia and Avery treat it as the most relatable resignation in the play: a professional quietly realizing the job is not worth the bad energy.

Along the way, Macbeth throws shade at “English epicures,” requests horse logistics like money is imaginary, and delivers an unintentionally hilarious moment of fear management that sounds suspiciously like a makeup tutorial. By the end, everyone is exhausted, the cheese is still wrong, and Macbeth’s big invincibility speech lands exactly as it should: not as power, but as a fragile man clinging to prophecies, armor, and denial while his staff updates their resumes in real time.

Eugenia and Avery are back, and somehow Macbeth has found a new way to be loud without even showing up onstage. In Act 5, Scene 2, a group of Scottish lords gathers to gossip, strategize, and casually announce that an English-backed force is closing in on Dunsinane, led by Malcolm, Siward, and Macduff. Which sounds heroic in theory, but in practice reads like an aggressively percussive group project with muddy boots, zero indoor voice, and no one checking whether the group chat even has Donalbain on it.

The hosts immediately take aim at the scene’s real villain: logistics. Everyone is marching, everyone is meeting at Birnam Wood, and nobody is offering arch support, water breaks, or a self-care station. They also resent being forced to pronounce names like Menteith and Caithness before their vocal warm-up tea, and they deeply object to Shakespeare’s habit of describing an entire political crisis using metaphors that feel like a belt, a garden, and a medical cleanse all happening at once.

Meanwhile, Macbeth’s reputation gets dragged through the heather in real time. The lords debate whether he is “mad” or running on “valiant fury,” while also acknowledging the obvious: his secret murders are catching up to him, loyalty is now purely transactional, and the crown is starting to look like it belongs to someone else. Eugenia and Avery fixate on the most vicious image of the scene, the comparison of Macbeth’s title to a giant’s robe hanging on a dwarfish thief, which they interpret as equal parts political critique and catastrophic styling note.

By the end, the lords decide to march toward Birnam, framing Malcolm as the “medicine” for Scotland’s “sickly weal,” which only irritates the hosts more because they did not consent to medical imagery, botany metaphors, or any form of emotional purging before noon. The scene exits exactly as it began: with marching, noise, and the crushing sense that everyone gets to leave while Eugenia and Avery are left holding the microphone and the trauma.

Eugenia and Avery arrive at Macbeth Act 5, Scene 1 already offended by the concept of Dunsinane Castle, because it sounds cold, Wi-Fi-free, and built entirely out of ankle pain. Unfortunately, the scene is not about renovations or guest amenities. It is about Lady Macbeth sleepwalking through a full psychological breakdown while two employees stand around providing the least helpful form of “care” ever recorded in Western literature.

A Doctor and a Gentlewoman lurk in the dark for multiple nights, apparently without snacks, blankets, or any professional urgency. The Gentlewoman gives a detailed play-by-play of Lady Macbeth’s bedtime habits, then suddenly refuses to repeat anything she has heard, launching what Eugenia calls the “I know something you don’t know” era of medieval workplace ethics. The Doctor pushes for details anyway, which the hosts interpret as the earliest known example of mansplaining someone into violating confidentiality.

Then Lady Macbeth enters with a candle and begins the iconic handwashing sequence: eyes open, senses shut, and scrubbing for a full quarter of an hour while insisting she cannot remove an invisible bloodstain. Eugenia and Avery spiral into the practical horrors of medieval soap, ruined cuticles, and a moisture barrier that never stood a chance. The monologue escalates into half-confession, half-anxiety dream, with shout-outs to “hell is murky,” the old man’s shocking blood volume, the Thane of Fife’s wife, and the devastating realization that not even “all the perfumes of Arabia” can fix what guilt has done to one little hand.

Meanwhile, the Doctor contributes a lot of observation and almost no medicine. He openly admits the case is beyond his practice, suggests she needs divine help more than a physician, and gives the Gentlewoman vague instructions to remove “the means of all annoyance,” which helps nobody and clarifies nothing. The scene ends with the Doctor mentally checkmated, the Gentlewoman clocking out, and the audience left screaming for literally any intervention, whether that is a proper treatment plan, a privacy policy, or at minimum a weighted blanket and a silk eye mask.

In short, it is a haunting, darkly funny episode about guilt, insomnia, and the realization that medieval Scotland had neither confidentiality nor concierge medicine, and somehow expected everyone to just wash their hands and go to bed.