The wrath of Tybalt

[Fate speaking]:
Brutality is inept within the shadows of the minds of men.
Lurking- it infects them, eventually attaching itself where it will hurt them most. Actions are contorted. What would be chivalry turns to corruptness and all hope... all imaginings become the seeds of true damnation. Where rivalry flourishes, all hands are stayed and a river of subdued burden marks a course unfamiliar to men that follow it. Gallantry turns to vile submission, loyalties to unfiltered hate and the passionate love of youth turns to tragedy, then all is lost, all is fixed...

[In Tybalts mind]:
Picture an arena. Colossal, towering; a house of blood smeared bricks bearing the marks of brutality. The aged stones recall the Millennia of carnage they’ve thrived for.
...decapitated bodies; lifeless torsos ravaged to un-humanly noticeable perceptions: pertained by death, they’re dragged roughly along in the hot, brisk breeze...
In their squalor, picture titan-like men mercilessly devoured by blood starved beasts.

The crowds fuel the spectacle; whooping, cheering... divulging their human ferocities.
Women swoon, some faint. You can taste the stale air; you can breathe in the broiling atmosphere,
You can feel the relentless will of the Warrior’s.

The way they carry themselves,
Lacking enmity, they have no goodwill... shackled by the blood of victims, friend and foe alike.
Striving on as death wary submitters to the bloodlust of a nation;
Their misfortune, their fortune will drive the crowd wild.

This is the way things should be

This is peace, which is only the fruit of a sustained and organised rivalry...

Capulet...vs. Montague

Mercutio was slain a spectator leaving me the sorrow of a dying man, when it was Romeo (That villain Romeo), his consort and some say ‘friend’.
He did not take up his arms to challenge,
He tried to stay my hand.
A ‘friend’, a coward who did not fight
Leaving Mercutio there, wounded, there, at his end...

[(Tybalt, talking now, reflecting)]

By his voice he was a Montague; then, first did he wrong me. I drew my sword to right that erroneous deed, but good Lord Capulet sought me... “Content thee!” be merry, gentleman: forgive now kinsman, Spite, he shall endure! He shall be endured...

Oh my Portentous outrage! ...God will mend my soul coz, just as he will mend yours...
Then seeming sweet, my retreat left the dead to the lofty prince’s kinsman and led to bitterest gall.

And I’m the dog! I’m the cat, the mouse, the rat, the beast that killed the Prince’s man in cold blood? No; that wretched boy, the pox; that muddy rascal, devil, abhorred slave, womanish, tearful forfeiting gazelle.
Romeo Montague will die! He’s no kin of mine, no kin of my kinsman, or some long lost cousin; neither is he friend of a friend of mine. Thou lovest me... Me! Better than I can, after all devise. Ah, Romeo Montague has met me; he’s spit on my face, and met my claw, and lest he be a consort with the Lord of hell or Zeus’ bride in fate; or, in some un-becoming, selfish form, my brother. My Law! He cannot match my wrath, he cannot see me torn; he will die, even if be it, I die too... One man, or two, will mourn.